Antiques

His hair is sparse to vanishing,
his eyes a watery blue, deeply
wrinkled his face, and his
moustache a long droop of
yellowed grey, but he crinkles
his mouth wide in a smile of
recognition as he counts us
and finds one little dog missing.
Two years ago we tell him. 
Last year we informed him
it was one year ago we'd lost
her and he's forgotten. Why not,
after all, still a prodigious feat
of memory for an old codger
like ourselves, seeing one
another so briefly, a 20-minute
chat every spring as we, ever
hopeful, peruse the offerings 
in the group antique shop meant
to attract the notice of summer
tourists, adding interest and a
group co-operative approach, a
shared business venture to the
small town's superannuated
contingent serving the hoped-for
needs of other retired seniors 
just passing through randomly,
part of their leisure time plans
for rummaging and foraging among
other people's off-loaded trash.