|
Old Endicott Road
Finally the two of you return
to only this. A song
you listened to together in a bar.
Your old dog needing to come close.
Bad as she smells you let her,
draw your hands along her
yellow coat. You are no different—
yellowing. Out the window
dusk, all that happiness yet
to be realized. How many walks
have you taken—rising suns,
setting suns of myriad colors at the mercy
of the seasons? Your footsteps
match. Your memories. The keys
weighting your pockets. Never mind
the locks. Hill, creek, forest—
who knows where you'll happen
to be—at some point you'll be
ancient. Like the tortoise,
mysterious as stone, you
are always home. What is one thing
every old woman knows? The heat
of her husband's hand rising
from his palm as from a loaf of bread,
warmer than breath? He knows
her shape better than anything
else he ever wanted, even
after dark. When you look
into each other's eyes you do not think
of dance or cake or lace,
but of that bed you share—how your sighing
wakes him, how his snoring
is more constant than the groaning
of the ocean at the shore.
|
