this is a good marriage

i used to hear my father say her name sometimes
when he spoke of the good fat bellied women
who tended to modestly priced restaurants

her name spoke like white rice
garnished with a spoonful of lemon gravy

though i was not poor or starving
i pocketed some cellophane wrapped crackers

they now sit idly in the lower side of the left side pocket of my shorts

i see worry when i see her
but joy nonetheless
from the old pillow fights of smelted love
and from generous sips of anxiety
and copious and yet delicatly placed pictures of her lord

the old man is failing to see some things
but he wields fancy contraptions
that he may see them still

the old woman is failing to hear some things
but she covers her ears
that she may still hear the gentle clipping of heels
and clip back as necessary
which is to say always

if i am afflicted by something life does to me
am i to insist that i know best
and contradict a blow to the head
and will myself verticle?

i think this is probably true of riding horses
but at what point do we seek to avert our natural limits?

i really cannot say
but this is a good woman
and this is surely a good marriage