Camelot

Inevitably, there are

aspects of of our being together

that I shall regret losing–

things like:

watching you sleep,

while I read–

Jane Kenyon or Edwin Muir -

something like that,

wondering why we're together,

sharing this bed,

this room,

sharing your home,

finally sharing space in our strange,

separate lives,

wondering, and wondering,

why we're together,

like: your almost,

but not quite completely,

silent snoring,

and the toc-tic-toc,

the antique mechanical clock

you have in your hall,

louder because:

I've opened the door;

I love its confident voice

I've done this before;

that clock will easily outlive us both;

like: listening to you pee,

smiling while I do,

having no idea why,

no idea why I'm smiling,

why I'm listening,

why I care about you,

the way that I do,

and, and, and why,

why does it matter,

why not, why bother,

why me, why am I with you;

I am, I just do;

and I listen while you

brush your teeth;

you gargle,

who gargles any more,

I stand - quiet as death,

un-breathing,

by your bathroom door,

listening:

a weird auditory voyeur;

like: imagining an older me,

an older you,

the lengthening shadows,

as, year after year,

if we are lucky enough,

unlucky,

blessed, unblessed

drawn tighter together,

our separate, single,

and joint memories coalesce;

at sixty-six and sixty-four,

our future is a stay of execution,

each day, and week,

and hour,

and the inevitability of -

yet another separation,

you or I will face another dissolution,

and I cannot, will not

endure another desolation,

like: watching you

while you read your

incomprehensibly entitled books

in Latin and in Greek,

I'll not speak,

not a word,

not yet,

later finding an excuse,

some pretext to abuse Platonism,

have a go at Heraclitus,

just for fun,

because you have retained

the charmed, soulful

seriousness of a clever,

working-class

Lancashire lad at fabled Oxford,

like: your weirdly,

crooked, and oddly contented smile,

and all the while

loving you laugh at my jokes,

poking fun at the great,

and the good...

because we must,

and we should;

laughing together aloud;

like: making love,

after my own five,

your ten year-long sacrifice,

homage to other lovers,

the mothers of our children,

lip service to tepid celibacy;

no idea what I might feel,

in a new body,

with boobs,

and medicinally dilated virginity;

two broken hearts,

old hearts,

love-making in the vicinity

of our recent

and too distant pasts;

but nothing lasts forever;

like: your face, that wonderful,

loving-me look,

sometimes a scowl

as I glance up from a book,

you watching me,

concern written in the lines of your face;

you worry because I

wear sadness like a cloak,

wrapping myself,

my lost hopes,

exile, and families,

in a soft haar of melancholy;

don't rescue me;

I am not your 'Lady of Shallot' -

Darling, you are not Sir Lancelot,

your belov'd London is not mine,

not my home,

not my many-tower'd Camelot.