Rest Stop On I-95

An old hand, propped against a wall,
steadies the body taking aim.
Unsteady eyes squint at a name
glyphed on a panel of the stall
amid an almost-Twombley scrawl.

Telephone number, pager, too,
and, below, a descending scale
for services from head to tail,
and cash or credit card will do.
Unsteadily, I wet my shoe.

The arm I lean into wobbles.
Some age spots dance before my eyes.
I picture Jenny's nubile thighs
spread for one more ancient's cobbles,
his pants awkwarder than hobbles.

A final dribble and I'm done
as at my age I ought to be.
A puzzled face stares back at me
unsure whether we've lost or won.
A floater, outside, darks the sun.

The car, with nothing much to hide,
Will willingly resume the ride.

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