Man and Dog
He walks toward me whistling merrily,
old, shabby, and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him,
he almost skips.
A peppery hound follows;
it slows and flops,
its muddy eyes meekly stoical.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.
The Man breezes past me smiling.
I think of a jaunty scarecrow-Fred Astaire;
his dog struggling to keep up
but huffing happily.
I walk on pondering:
that If time journeys like that
for all the young at heart,
should I skip more often?
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