Old men are tender.
Gone the posturing
that lived like a reflex.
They let their shoulders down.
A few remain
bitter to an end.
Those who carry the hurt
for comfort, even for love.
The stubborn ones who still fight
the big war, rail about the passed-over job,
still feel the back of their father’s hand,
the chiseled words of someone’s ghost.
But mostly, old men are tender
who wear the silver of their hair
like halos, whose eyes, grey hazel
lights under water, still shine
as they stoop to lift a grandchild
or sit contented with their grown sons
together on a well-worn couch, saying
the wisdom of nothing and everything.
Gone the posturing
that lived like a reflex.
They let their shoulders down.
A few remain
bitter to an end.
Those who carry the hurt
for comfort, even for love.
The stubborn ones who still fight
the big war, rail about the passed-over job,
still feel the back of their father’s hand,
the chiseled words of someone’s ghost.
But mostly, old men are tender
who wear the silver of their hair
like halos, whose eyes, grey hazel
lights under water, still shine
as they stoop to lift a grandchild
or sit contented with their grown sons
together on a well-worn couch, saying
the wisdom of nothing and everything.