Old Ladies Love Me

It's true. Old ladies see me, and they love
me. They tell their grandaughters nice things
about me, they give me hugs, they ask me to
walk them across slick parking lots, and I
know - in the cockles of their hearts, these
ladies love me. But I have a hunch the old bags
are cheating on me. I think it possible that they
don't love me, in the singular. I think they love
any decent chap with a congenial disposition
and a seeming clumsiness with the ladies. I'm
not sure I'm okay with this general type of love,
but than again, it's the only love I'm getting. So, like
the trampled upon lover, I turn once more to you
dearest octogenarian. I find my home in the
encirclement of your precious, prunish arms.