Urning a Living

Urning A Living Mary lives in a concrete urn of gray Center stage in the red kitchen Her husband stays at home next to her They do not do dishes or anything any more He too has an urn situated there along the floor They adore each other Mary pops her head up from the urn Very slowly though Conjures up a kiss for him She calls it copulation or birth control Mary watches her lover in snail like progression Lift his head above his stone cold receptacle Their mouths nearly touch It is an incomplete transaction On the sorted affair of sorts The close, missed kiss, almost landed on the lips this time Time is all they have while in existence Existing in the finery of their urns inside the kitchen There will be no babies, this, or any other year It is very clear they are solid in their conviction Solid and becoming more so Turning into urn is their condition We’ve come to learn and love them so