Moonlit Cane Tango
Under a silver grin of moon, he shuffles past the tide,
His cane clicks like Morse code—C-A-N-E, not C-A-N-T—in stride.
Salt air tames his hair around the balding head, still stubbornly spry,
And in that tap-tap rhythm, a rogue star leaps in his eye.
Wave surf offers applause, gulls pretend they've never seen a groove this hot;
He nods a courtly greeting to a lady’s heart his steps have caught.
With a wink he tilts the cane—epinephrine meeting moonlight’s glow—
“Cane?you?feel?the?love?tonight?” echoes back from the seas below.
Eyes soft as driftwood meet trundling cane below waist:
He whispers jokes to moonlit foam, confessing past youthful haste.
He has hips once worth a dance card, now requires stabilizing support—
Still he swivels on one leg, as if each grain of sand were a court.
Seagulls halt their gossip, waves lean in for that sly wink,
Each embered foam-cap brims: they’d lunge for her if they could think.
He strides with a regal hush, the beach becomes ballroom and stage;
She laughs and claims her bosom warm, her pulse half his age.
He tips his cane like a top hat and makes low bows to her feet,
Promise lies in crooked wood, varnished, aged, yet resolutely sweet.
Moonlight carves their silhouettes, applause in each breaking wave—
Their love is not shiny youth; it’s the swagger of the brave.
In the midnight strolls, old man dancing with sticks and sea,
Love that leans on folly, memory, and one-second dignity.
Long after sand erases footprints and the tide forgets its rounds,
Your cane will still be tapping: “Can’t stop loving you,” it sounds.
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