another woman’s bed
Old men are impossible. Implausible.
They pass by mirrors knowing full well how the imperfect image reflected there must not be glanced at lest they be judged vain. Therefore also imperfect. This is their blindness.
Though they age and sag and bend down before the burgeoning weight of gravity, and despite their bodys’ grievances they sport themselves vainly amongst the youth and strive for places that are only awarded them through charity, and patience, and the perceived notion that to honour old men is to honour old times.
Times forgotten, dismembered and buried – sunk beneath the weight of marble and edifice.
Warriewood is not a long beach, and it sits beneath an ampitheatre of homes that accept the onshore south ‘easters and the septic stink they carry ashore from the offshore sewer pipes.
Five laps, slow jog. The old man drifts down and back in an easy lope – he’s here every day, every day at the same time and every day he runs the five laps –
She came down the steep stairway at the southern end, the young woman, and she walked directly to the sea and across the the old man’s path. They almost collided.
He ran through her air, and he took up his breath, and he filled his lungs with that rare fragrance, that untouchable gift.
Minutes from her bed.
Header pic by imogene cunningham – the unmade bed.