NOTHING MUCH HAS CHANGED...

except the gray hairs
around my balls &
the wrinkled spigot
that serves
as my dick.
But my brain
still gets as hard
as Chinese algebra.
And so I'm taken
by surprise
when folks my age
smile & say hello
as they pass me
reading or smoking
a cigarette or both
while I sit
on a stoop
in the shade
on a beautiful brownstone perch
in Greenwich Village.

The young ones
without a crease
or a care pass
as if I didn't exist...
& I don't...
for them.
Sometimes a "father thing"
glides by and I get a look
but little more.
But the old ones & I
exchange a smile, even banter
a bit--how's the book; it's hot;
nice weather; live here long--
small talk that connects us.
They think they have nothing to fear
and I don't try to dissuade them.
They are not in a rush,
but I am...I've always been
in a rush and more times
than not
have blown past the money.
Most feel no danger
coming off of me...I hope
they're wrong.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

THE GIRL

has lived on my block
as long as I have--over
forty years. I watched her
grow into
a woman
creased
around the edges--
not necessarily
a bad thing.
At first
I was drawn
to her stately
gait; she moved
much like a Lipizzaner;
she had a black-haired mane
that flouted and a knowing
irreverence that hinted
and announced. I would not
have been surprised
if trumpeters marched
in front of or behind
her, yet
she was alone
in all her comings
& goings.

I saw her today
as I sat & smoked
& thought about death
in the most kindly of ways:
How it's been good
to keep itself close
but not too close; how
at one time it screamed
& now just hums
a familiar tune.
She pranced
down the block
toward me, her legs
moving like well-timed
Weber carburetors
and bounced
on the balls
of her feet.

I lowered
my sunglasses
and nodded
to her.
She did the same.
How long,
I asked,
have you lived here?
Almost forty-two years,
she answered, slowing
to a stop.
Me, too,
I said.
She smiled. I know,
she said.
I smiled.
March '74.
You're older,
she teased,--May '74.
Norman, I said.
Alice, she replied.

Two lovers,
plotting.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015