Mornings you look old a bit
like your father but I don’t
mind just as you don’t seem to mind
that as usual my life is
in disarray the way the picture
we got in Quito of the South American
sky with the clouds that are all
the same is crooked on the wall
or that untamed look in my eye first thing
and that my hair grays as you gaze
outside where the orange
of a monarch butterfly clashes
with a purple bearded iris
forget-me-nots on the hill remind
me of the last tufts of hair
on a balding man
So come inside and while there’s time
let’s make our bodies
one like those jigsaw puzzles your
mother loved to put together
on the card table while she watched
tv in color
