The golden sheen has turned to rust,
from Gucci to a garment bag,
the joy to ghostly lamentations,
how the weighted seconds drag.
Blind and deaf to consecration,
weak the beatings of the heart,
barren now what once was fertile,
love's become a dying art.
The chasm of their lives together
broadens with each passing day,
echoes barely audible
now rattle in a death-mask play.
He spends his time in retrospection,
trying to ignite the flame,
all the tinder is but ashes,
all their tenderness a shame.
Passing in the hallway, they will
glance away in silent sadness,
post-it notes and conversations
miss their mark and scatter, useless.
He concerns himself with models,
crafting toys no one will see,
for an unborn son or daughter,
generations not to be.
Would a child have made a difference?
would that he were strong and able,
tiny sneakers, matching socks,
another place to set at table.
Living with an empty feeling,
she tries not to blame or doubt,
busies with the darning, dusting,
looking for a quick way out.
Finances kept them together,
stocks and bonds, annuities,
the only glue that holds the airplane,
slim and thin prosperities.
Fifty years, and inching slowly,
they will not be One with God,
separate, they make arrangements,
he cremated, she to sod.