Six Old Guys
(For Thom on his 31st birthday, written in honor of both this and his magical eyes)
poetry by DOROTHEA LASKY
There are six old guys at the 90th St. Y that I see go every day at 3:30 p.m. into the men’s locker room. I work the entrance desk there. Each old guy is different, but similar, slightly graying at the edges of their crowns, slightly terry-cloth in everything about themselves. I laughed once when Betty called them all silver foxes. I thought so, too. Something so tan and frail about them simultaneously. Something both alive and dead. I knew they went swimming, but I didn’t know much about the pool, despite being a gym employee. In college, I had been a competitive weight lifter and even now, my arms were very muscular, maybe too much so for a woman. At 3:33 p.m. every day, minutes after the old guys, a young guy always comes in. READ MORE
