24 January 2012


this heat drains him--she is surprised
to hear him say--yet she has her
own catalogue of ills, those
nights spent sleepless, gazing upon
the bright-numeraled clock, counting the hours until
we dash, again, into the fray, empty-
handed, naked as newborns

the strands of silver, too, brushed at
dawn, the knees that ache upon ascending
a stairwell, migraine tablets grasped
as curtains are drawn tightly together

so time hurries on and we are
not as we were in those
fondly remembered
days and evenings past

one hand scours away while the
other builds up, always laying a
new foundation or a
fresh coat of paint,
addressing the damages done by
time weathering on--he winks at
us and smiles--
he has seen it all before

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