Hunched over on the bench,
The old man sits.
His shoulders droopy
And those once toned legs,
Hang stringy and wrinkled.
Battered knees, hips replaced,
He’s in no hurry.

Peering out from
Beneath the silver fringe,
His eyes meet mine.
“Wanna swap places?”

Gasping for breath,
Almost choking on saliva,
My feet slam the ashpalt
And my lungs protest.

I hold his gaze.
“Sure!” I say. “Why not?”