‘Mind if I join you?
The name’s Johnny Walker.’
He extended his hand.
He was tall and gaunt –
six foot something
and thin as a pretzel.
‘Visiting the wife.
Poor old thing
had a fall last week.
Mind you,
She’s pretty good for 93.’
‘Excuse me, John,
but how old are YOU? ’
‘I was Ninety last birthday.’
I couldn’t believe it.
Sure, there were a few
liver spots on his face
and his dentures
were more than obvious –
But ninety!
‘Hearing’s pretty poor
these days.
Damn nuisance.’
He spoke of jazz –
played piano
from ear.
Loved Coltraine and Bill Evans.
Rattled off a string of titles.
Then just before he left,
he mentioned
(quite casually)
the Tiger Moth he’d flown
on his 90th birthday.
‘Hadn’t been in one since the war.
Such a thrill to loop the loop again.’
He left shortly afterward.
Strode down the corridor,
hands clasped firmly behind his back.
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