by Larry Schug
this young guy,
workin’ dude, I’d guess,
cap on backward,
sleeves ripped off his t-shirt at the shoulders,
just being respectful,
true to good upbringing,
holds open the door of the Holiday store
for an old guy I see reflected in the glass—
it’s me. Holy crap, it’s me.
I’m an old guy.
When did it happen that people open doors
for me?
I can open my own god damn door.
I’m the one who holds doors open for old folks.
I think, I’m gonna tell that young pup
what’s up and I do;
I walk past him;
right next to the Nut Goodies
I nod once,
whisper like a truck on gravel
Thanks, Dude
Wild Goose Poetry Review 
Loved this.
Hahahaha! My younger brother was just talking about this very thing to me. I love your work, Larry!!
Very funny. I hear myself!
Oh yes, I love this. When did I become the old woman myself?
Such a universal truth to us old people! Love it!
Just what I needed to read the day after turning 50. “Thanks, Dude” (like a truck on gravel) is perfect.
“Thanks, Dude.” For real.