We speak again and neither utters ill,
but not about my life, my news, my pen.
I feel relief but now I wonder: will
we speak again?

I’m tired of her bigotry on men,
her tendency to flouncing quit or chill,
her failure to admit how she was then.

But we go back too far for me to kill
a lifetime of affection, knowing when
alone I can recover love, until
we speak again.


This entry was posted in Aging, Love, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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