For R.A.
My close friend, Dick, now pushing eighty-one,
And his wife, Deb (at fifty-nine), have split.
Another fierce conjugal chapter done,
Fattening an endless book. I admit,
This disconcerting plot-line doesn’t stun
(Those windy storms apparent from the start)—
And though they pledged each other in our home,
We sensed the tension of embattled hearts.
They, for two decades, somehow found their way
Along the twisted, parlous, pit-filled roads.
Undulating pain and triumph—moiré
Patterned silk, shredded, finally, by goads.
Bust-ups breed issues, arguments at length—
At this age (god!), where do they get the strength?
(12/19/09)