The old guy, a regular, replaced his magazine on the rack.

I’ll read what he’s reading.

Little children, former babies, were running around on little legs on little feet in little shoes, little hands discovering everything in the world, parents mostly mothers at this time of day, patiently enthusiastic, overseeing, then the little one runs to mommie, leaps into her arms and snuggles her neck.

The woman on my left is typing, her lap top open. I could just see what looked like a long list of lines like a poem, and I almost gave her my card as a fellow poet, but I didn’t because it now looked like a chart maybe the stock market and her phone rang. She read a text message, went back to the chart on her screen, I got up, put my New Yorker back on the rack, and picked up my poles for the long walk home.

Not that long a walk, really, but at my age and condition, the walk from the chair to the door qualifies.