You in a two day stubble and down from a forty
to thirty-six waistline from feasting on despair,
and me in the usual stained sweats, up to a
30 inch waistline from feasting on despair,
and huddled in coats while a weak sun
bathes the yard beginning its dying
with a single red leaf, the ancient tree arching
like a giant umbrella, dangling frilly green hands,
as, between us, sit two other people,
though not in the flesh, and one
multiple choice test generated to get to the
bottom of the sea of our floundering union.
And whom do you want, I ask, matter-of-factly,
A or B? And is this a real want,
or just to spare me pain?
(note to self, this can be a good sign)
And if such pain could be contained, then what?
And which of us departs, and to where,
and what about our golden anniversary?
And what of the the double standard?
If you give up her I need to give up him,
but if either cannot, then what?
And do you understand how you scorned
me for ten long years, and how you've said
I ruined you, so many times, had I a
dime each for each pronouncement
I could live in Paris, Santa Fe, or the Big Sur coast?
We're halfway down the questionnaire
as the sun winces throughout the
cracks in your choices, some of them
rendering others non-applicable, and
all of this is handled very Vulcan-like,
with all its logic of if-so's and therefore's.
A bluebird treads the top of the fence,
a squirrel skitters across the deck roof,
and both of us, quasi-religious, think
we divine some positive sort of sign,
though knowing that when all is said and done,
nothing really is. But apparently
we will stay together for now.
Then, in the curious absence of relief or joy
we go inside and assume our chores,
leaving the day to its coming chill
knowing the sameness will continue,
which will never be the same, still.
Copyright Julianza Shavin 2009