Poem: My Walking Stick

Under grey skies I move through pink petals...
walking stick in hand...twirling the morning away...
Strangers have often said to me, "Nice cane"...
breaking the northern rule not to talk to strangers...
to which I have replied...making a conscious effort
to dull my tendencies towards self righteousness...
"It's not a cane...it's a walking stick...you know...
the opposite concept...not a crutch but something
to celebrate your walks with...something to hold
in your right hand that gives you that purposeful feeling...!"
They often at this point give me a dubious look
as if the thought of a stick in hand for purposes other than
support or weaponry...is not really a starter in the "real world"...
Young women on crowded buses have often given me their seats
from either fear or guilt...as I suddenly appear stick in hand before them...
To think you are being perceived by the opposite sex
as either frightening or infirm is not a thought that sends
the ego cartwheeling...and you find yourself through clenched teeth
declining the kind offer...As you persist...stick in hand being misunderstood...
you sometimes long for someone you run into to get what it is you're doing...
with no explanations necessary...This morning...as I walk I look up
along the wet bepetalled sidewalk...to see a pretty young woman in black...
approaching me from the opposite direction...with a staff in her hand...
the size of the one Friar Tuck used to carry...As she comes abreast of me...
she smiles at me in a knowing way as she takes in that I too am carrying
something in my right hand other than groceries or an overnight bag...
Our eyes meet...and amazed at my brazeness I hear myself saying: "Wanna fence?"...
resisting at the last millisecond the temptation to start click-clacking on her stave
with my walking stick..."Right on!" she says with a conspiratorial smile...
Any decision to be made about stopping to get further acquainted...
is made redundant by our mutual momentums carrying us in opposite directions...
I have no regrets though as I walk on...with a sudden spring in my step...
and giving my stick an extra twirl or two...I see this not as a missed opportunity...
but as a meeting..brief though it was...with someone who finally understands...
that what I carry in my hand...is not a cane to prop me up as I go...
but plainly and simply...the thing they used to call in more enlightened times...
a "walking stick"........