I love smoked meats.
It takes a little extra prep
And slow heat for a long time.
It’s harder than blasting a piece of protein with high flame
Then gnawing through it,
Poking it down with microwaved green beans.
But I have adjusted. Maybe I have more time.
Or I’m willing to spend it more slowly.
Who invented the 2 minute hug?
And how did we muddle through without it?
The old hugs saved us 117 seconds a day,
About 58 minutes a month
Almost twelve hours a year,
But we missed too much.
My heart doesn’t know what it is doing for at least 15 seconds.
It’s all brain and intention at first (and awkwardly self-conscious)
Until I open. It takes more than one try sometimes.
Holding hands in front of the television?
Is anything quite as much of a cliché?
My shows, your shows, our shows.
Your hand, with that active thumbnail,
Wiggling and jiggling on my cuticle?
My fingertip pad, running over the ridges in your fingernail.
The dog practices hand-hold interruptus,
Rubbing the web between your thumb and forefinger,
Making my finger multitask, scratching a dog ear to keep the peace.
There are no instructions for retirement.
So much of my day is spent waiting.
Tamoxifen insists on your daily naps
When we can make them happen.
I spend considerable time waiting to be with you.
And then we play Jeopardy.
We aren’t quite as good as we used to be.
Our inappropriate behavior.
Laughing at our own aphasia.
Ridiculing the loss of the keys, my glasses, a toothbrush.
Calling it “getting lucky” when I catch you naked from the shower.
Talking you down from an insult hurled at you at work.
You telling me to stop watching Fox News.
Carving out a life after all.
No one warned I’d have trouble swinging a hammer
Or climbing ladders.
That your thumb would refuse to open a canning jar,
That I would have to wait for a good day to trim my toenails,
That a good night’s sleep is nine consecutive forty-five minute naps
Interrupted by the urgent need to pee.
The Fibonacci dance.
After these decades
We finally know, a little,
About co-navigating our space and time.
You with me
Me with you
You with yourself
And me with me.
As we play for time,
We are finding the exquisite rhythms.
Haiku
The older I get,
The slower each day passes,
But years seem to rush.