some Saturdays

 
 
driving on the main  
avenue  
 
some Saturdays I  
see them leaving  
the house  
 
both with hair as  
white as the snow  
peaks of Kilimanjaro  
 
she on a cane  
 
him with arm wrapped  
firmly around her  
 
moving slowly as twilight  
on a summers Solstice  
as they walk in the final  
act of the their lives  
together  
 
the gentleness  
 
the grace  
 
the endurance  
 
and under skies as blue  
as the face of an angry    
child holding his  
breath  
 
I let myself believe  
that happiness is  
not science fiction  
 
the stray bullet thought  
enters my mind  
 
"Good Lord."  
 
"what stories of love  
they could  
tell."