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Golden Anniversary
She makes the bed, he folds the bedspread off,
she puts the crockery away, he washes the dog,
she turns the radio to the classical station,
he empties the hot water bottle
After summer comes fall, after winter spring
When there’s a problem, she picks up the phone
when he’s irritable, he doesn’t meet her gaze
She likes to rearrange the furniture, it makes her feel refreshed
he tells the same jokes, she always laughs
she gets twenty emails from her buddies every day
he speaks to his brother maybe once a year
They say perhaps there’s water on the moon
He drives the car, she files her nails and phones her friends
he eats that spicy sauce that always gives him indigestion
she feeds the birds; he lets the lawn grow into a jungle
she plants her cactus cuttings in decorative pots
Every day he walks five miles or more; in between
this and that she plays solitaire; she pours salt on slugs
he walks past without a glance
She trims his hair, he makes her soup, she folds his clothes
he rubs her back with china oil, she remembers his birthday
two weeks in advance and G-d forgive him if he forgets hers
When they add up their combined age, they frown
and sometimes shrug or sigh and twice a week they turn off
the phone, send the cats downstairs, fluff up the pillows,
feel seventeen again, laugh at their arthritis
Outside, the sun at night does somersaults across the sky’s applause
© Johnmichael Simon
2009
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