Some days my wife has aches
and I have pains.
Other days I have aches
and she has pains.
We tell each other
all about it from our rockers
sipping Earl Grey tea
in tinkling porcelain cups
while watching DVDs
of Lawrence Welk,
the late conductor nonpareil,
who’s trying now to get
the Seraphim and Cherubim
to sing “God Bless America.”
My wife and I are at an age
where no quick fix exists,
no slow fix either.
Finally I tell her what
neither of us wants to hear:
We’ll feel better, Dearie,
not to worry,
once we’re dead.
It’s the dying
that’s a problem but
we’re getting there.
Been on the road since birth.
We’ve paid the tolls.
It’s been a trip.
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