On the Way to the Ballet

The old ladies march
Onto the elevator,
Steadied by their canes,
Each a shrunken frailty
Wrapping an unending
Soul—they are going
To watch young people
Dance dances of grace
And beauty, while re-
Calling their own beauty
Long dissolved in the
Acid of time. Yet, they
Are happy—I even joke
With them as I lean on
My own cane: “Come
Ladies! Let’s have a
Foot race!” They all
Laugh, as the young
Girls within their
Tattered frames
Flirt with the potent
Young man hiding
Behind my time-
Marked mask.
For a moment
We all feel a jolt
Of that spark
We call life.