WHERE OLD MEN GO

Some old men sit on porches,
on swings, in rockers.
Others walk a pier,
fishing pole and tackle box in hand.
If they’re lucky,
a young ‘un tags along.

But my old mind wanders
to a solo spot
atop Staffa,
a small Scottish isle.

Walking through foot high wild grass,
I lift my legs in exaggerated motion.
Just ahead, hundreds of feet
below this hillock, I hear the sea.
Stepping gingerly, I find rock steps,
leading me to a stone shelf
made just for me to sit a while,
and be alone with the sea and the waves
and my old man thoughts and dreams.