by Rocky Macy
“And what of me? Should I dare to ask it?
Where is my due for the mortar and sweat
That I gave from the heart, without regret,
To house our marriage? A house? A casket!
Our marriage is dead, I’ve tried to mask it
With public embraces, a false face set
To show love that has flown, love to forget!
Am I to blame? Should I dare to ask it?”
“Bitter old woman inflamed with such spite,
Your shackles of hate no longer bind me
To our stagnant union, that loveless blight!
As the dusk settles she and I will flee
Through the village gates to some star-strewn site
Hidden among the dunes of Arabie.”
"The really frightening thing about middle age is that you know you'll grow out of it." -- Doris Day