for Timi

On a breezy May afternoon,
driving down a street I once
traversed regularly to and from
the college, where I taught so many

kinds of people—the very young,
the not-so-young, the middles, the later
middles, the young old, the middle old and,
lucky for me, the later old, lifelong learners—

two ladies in the latter category make
their way down the sidewalk with walkers
like a couple of ships chugging alongside each
other—old friends, compatriots, I imagine, even if

they move more slowly than they once did.
Clearly, the forces of gravity, infirmity and age
do not stop them. Now on your way to me for a
walk—me well into the young old category, you in

late middle—I whisper a wish into the tousle of trees
overhead that we might one day be like them, deeper
into our already aging futures—each upright, outside
together, stepping carefully over cracks and bumps,

if necessary, hands guiding aluminum frames with little
wheels, on our way to matcha or hot chocolate, under
branches ripe with new leaves, or bare and waiting, two
longtime friends still learning each other, sharing tiny,

grateful moments—lucky us.