she wears a fat apron, the relic of three pregnancies and rich living
his hair is thinning on top.
her breasts are headed south, impelled by time and gravity
his arm-hairs are turning grey.
her eyes are nested in radiating wrinkles, cut deeper with every short-sighted smile
his neck is reddened and lined with sun and years.
she pants a little when she runs, like an asthmatic pug
he snores loudly and joyously, night after night the booming carol
she needs stronger glasses, he takes Berocca every day
she falls asleep reading
he, listening to music made
by people who were not yet conceived when he was young.
he shouts at the dog, and worries about the mortgage.
she makes herself tired, working and householding, navigating the shifting seas of children.
he wishes for a fortune, while she
mostly wishes he would do the dishes.
middle age almost upon them
that least romantic of times (as the songs would have it),
one's cardigan and slipper years.
talking to him eases her still, undoes the knots, brings her lightness
her touch, even now, is fire and comfort to him
back to back they face the world, arms athwart
joined by time, children, need, longing; that strange admixture
of congruence and choice, fate and will.
each holds the other's stories in their hands
the other's heart in their eyes.
(in love. actually.)
- Kathy, 14/8/12
5 hours ago