Sharp jacket

Looks in the mirror at the striped seersucker,

Blue and white striped, a fitting head-turner.

Light as air, yet sharp and clean,

The finest threads he’d ever seen.

A nod, a grin, a knowing glance,

Sure that his style spoke for him in advance

On the street a young man stops

Turns and points at the slim-fitting top

"Sharp jacket!" the young man calls,

A nod, a smile, it says it all

Then comes the handshake, swift and slick,

A twist, a tap, a baffling trick.

Fingers fluttered, a snap, a slide,

A grip then gone, a palm denied.

A fist that bumped, then pulled away,

A swirl, a lock, a grand display.

His fingers twitched, unsure, slow,

The pattern changed—where did it go?

"Young man," he sighed, with calm refrain,

"Once a grip was firm and plain."

They laughed, they shrugged, and walked away,

The jacket shone, but his hands betrayed.

He shook his head.

His voice was steady,

“Well, after all—I'm nearly eighty!"