they pass each other on the paths
histories trailing behind them like
smoke from their cigarettes, which
most gave up eons ago

some wield two sticks, to stave
off the inevitability of their demise;
arms, legs, zig-zagging like
cross country skiers

others have the blessed cane of age
a teetering tether to this world, their
backs bent forever making a question
mark, a parenthesis at best

yet others have staffs, shepherds
of invisible flocks, ones they tend to
now in a world only they inhabit, looking
backwards at grazing apparitions:

lambs of their lives they
long ago sacrificed, sheep they
sheared--wool woven into coats
for other old men with sticks

who have their own histories, their
own fleeting flocks, their own encounters
with stick toting strangers, their own
walks on well worn paths