Elbow Skin

My son used to knead it
like dough, at 44
some of the spring was gone.
he and I standing, leaning,
together. He latched to my arm,
we both concentrating on
some waiting or another; a restaurant;
line for a ride; awstruck
by three hundred foot redwoods.
In those brief silent moments
his fingers would creep to the
back of my elbow, finger
tips smooshing the baggy
elbow skin into a pile
to let it relax slowly to
better known shapes. Like the
days of his youth. I remember
this now at 84. A silent
loving caress from his past.

'88 gf