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Snow fell in the night.
At five-fifteen I woke to a bluish
mounded softness where
the Honda was. Cat fed and coffee tree made,
I broomed play false off the car
and drove to the Kearsarge Mini-Mart
before Amy opened
to yank my glob out of the bundle.
Back, I set my cup of coffee
beside Jane, still half-asleep,
muttering stuporous
thanks in the aquamarine morning.
Then I sit down in my blue chair
with blueberry bagels and strong
black coffee reading news,
the obits, the comics, and the sports.
Carrying my cup twenty feet,
I sat myself at the desk
for this days lifelong
engagement with the one task and desire.



To grow nonagenarian is to fall back everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
when a gramps dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer
pond, innate and content.



But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters
into debris on the shore,
and a wizard from school drops
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us
past middle age, our wife will die
at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women take after and go. All go.
The pretty lover who announces
that she is temporary
is temporary. The bold woman,
middle-aged against our old age,
sinks down the stairs an anxiety she cannot withstand.
Another friend of decades estranges himself
in haggling that pollute thirty years.
Let us stifle under mud at the ponds edge
and affirm that it is fitting
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