his worn hands matched the face working now to ask for service in a suit almost as shiny as his medals dedication plain upon his pride his seventy plus years reflected badly in my thirty year old mind I stopped listening after his remark on how he could do me - if he was ten years younger his worn hands lingered too long in mine - the raspy skin worked to squeeze a little more than I could or would offer he took the change and asked for help - his arcing frame seemingly dragged that way by the rememberance on his chest never again to carry the weight of celebration we walked and talked as his load I carried - effortlessly I held my stride to his tottering and hugged his twisted frame a thoughtful gesture - his old arms barely held me in squeezing of my buttocks to balance - or so I thought until his other hand gripped my breast I felt sick with knowledge somewhere in these skeletal remains lurked the man he used to be untangling felt like an archeological dig he swayed a little and grinned sun-spots splitting what once were lips ten years he laughed - and coughed flustered by his maleness warped inside the drying husk I turned to leave - then spun on playful heels expanded in my curves tempted a seductive stance - twenty years younger I'd have shoved your balls back to the war twenty years on that I'd have thrown you to the ground and rode you like the devil herself was in me he laughed - coughed a little more thanks he said...for everything we're not so different you and I