So many years together, over sixty,
and she, Missouri to the core,
and he, German accent still apparent,
quarreled the years away
in a comfortable style that
occasionally worried the
grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
He was an ex-Catholic,
excommunicated when they wed,
and still he had his fish on Friday,
though she argued his church
didn’t care for him, why should he
care for it? And besides,
nobody had to eat fish on Friday
She fed the dogs scraps,
he argued it was bad for them.
She found his taste in tv
objectionable, “Karl, don’t
let those kids watch Portland
Wrestling, it is all fake.”
“Nah, Betty, it’s all real.”
and he would wink at us,
and we would smile, in on the joke,
as she argued about how fake
it really was.
I remember them, after all these
years, the love apparent,
even through the bickering,
they lie side by side now,
and I imagine them squabbling still,
about why the weeds grow more
near her headstone, and how
he objects to her getting full sun all day,
while he rests in partial shade,
and how the children never visit.
For Poetic Asides, and Quickly.