A New Poem - At a Restaurant in Berkeley

Birthday dinner

with friends.

Companionable.

Good Italian food,

artfully presented.

Across the way,

an old couple sits

side by side,

with a friend

across the table.

The wife’s long white hair

is pulled to the side

in a high ponytail.

So Berkeley - I think -

she perhaps an artist,

both perhaps old

academics.

Cocktails arrive

at their table, hers

in a full, wide 

champagne glass.

She struggles to lift it

with two trembling hands,

and I hold my breath,

concerned for imminent spillage.

Although it takes a torturous time,

she manages to raise it to her lips

without mishap.

He serves her tomatoes, basil,

mozzarella cheese from

a shared appetizer plate,

then turns away,

letting her attend to herself.

From time to time,

in silent spaces in

our own conversation,

I glance at her

and see how stalwartly

she makes her slow

and shaky way

through her dinner.

I think – This is her life

every day, and his

to cope with as well.

My friends and we

are all past seventy ourselves,

yet still preserve a modicum

of vitality and elan,

despite complaints

about our bodies’ failures.

But soon, I know,

that could be us.

If I were more courageous,

I would ask them -

How do you find the fortitude

to live with your infirmities

and challenges?

In my mind I imagine

them responding -

What is the alternative?

And yet, here they are,

in this vibrant town

by a gleaming bay,

eating at a fine restaurant,

together, and with

companionship.

This is the work then –

and the gifts -

of living into

a privileged old age.