deepundergroundpoetry.com

Now She Tells Me

Now she tells me          
for the however manyeth time that  
         
yes, she still loves me but          
in a different way.          
           
I kept hearing that but          
translated it as          
yes, she still loves me but          
there are issues which can          
and probably will be          
worked out.          
           
Silly boy.          
           
The latest issue being          
the guy twenty-some years younger          
who just got out of jail          
and is now working for her          
with an ankle bracelet          
quietly keeping an eye on things          
           
While his thing      
which is supposed to go up        
goes up      
whereas mine        
wants to think about it          
and will get back to me if and when            
the viagra train comes rolling in..          
           
Yes, she is effing him.          
Yes, I am an impediment.          
Yes, I am a wrench in the inner workings          
of this simulacrum of whatever.         
           
My expiration date mockingly serenades          
my seventy-nine years of irrelevancy          
even as my world swoons          
and my old precious dish          
runs away with the bright shiny spoon.          
           
My dear old sweetie          
with flawless skin      
begins to wrinkle          
her merciless spine slowly bending      
her body into a querulous question mark          
 
shivers now in anticipation      
as she shushes me          
index finger to lips        
and goes outside        
to take his call.          
           
Be careful, dear one,          
I want to say but          
I have lost all influence          
and her eyes are once again          
shining like a young girl          
wearing giddy ribbons of abandon          
           
who decades ago danced wildly          
with a snake about her neck          
but now slow dances          
with early-stage dementia.         
   
What is left is just          
to hold my tongue      
and sleep alone      
beneath the bus      
          
and drink the kool-aid    
the bitter cup       
which runneth over    
and over  
and over;  
     
to be gracious          
without overtly complaining          
or demanding a reset.          
           
But it's hard.          
It's really hard.
Written by Mrd
Published | Edited 13th Mar 2024
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