If they are young and pretty 

they do not smile back at me 

because at seventy years of age,

to them I am not just risible

I am completely invisible.

 

But... 

If she is more than a bit mature

our eyes might meet in a flirty greet

and ignite a mutual allure;

as we pass exchanging smiles 

her upward curling lips beguile.

 

Then I puff up ... 

It must be the way I'm dressed

Blue blazer, tan slacks neatly pressed.

Crisp shirt with a nautical tie-

Sailboat, with its spinnaker high.

 

But wait! 

Maybe she smiled at me 

Because something is askew..

Are my pants unzipped? Or ripped?

Is something stuck upon my shoe?

Did she smile at something I should rue?

​