It would seem that,
still having our health, we
should rumble in random ecstasy,
our aged bodies still functioning
should not waste this freebie,
this middle years opportunity
Where, well fed and satisfied,
we enjoy the luxury of complacence.
The house is quiet, children gone.
The furnace ignites, sounds like Tibetan
monks droning a once-witnessed
Blackhat ceremony, assuring us a trip off
the Wheel of Life. But wait,
while still in this incarnation
I gaze with half-closed eyes through space
that lands fondly, but strangely, on you.
If the poet in a purple shirt at ninety
can bring a house to its feet, what less
can we do but reach across
a sheet of linen. Instead night finds us
rolling towards our separate sides
of this marriage bed. Sanctified by
years of chosen monogamy it
envelops our sleep. Big enough
to give us room between
where the vastness between
may be filled with fantasy
or is empty.