An Approximation of Love

Based on a hundred and forty remaining attempts

This is the age when late evenings
appeal less than they used to—
the gnawing back-alley jaw,
oxblood boots a size too small,
a fractured clavicle, a fall,
pericardial jumpstarts at 3 a.m.,
the rhythms thumping a flatline.

Now in felt slippers,
half-crazed in daylight,
talking to the cat as if he’s my lover,
even he’s grown melancholy with desire.

In the marbled bathroom I notice
two blackened toenails—
a pleasing, symmetrical demise.
I step into the shower
to wash away time.

My wife, repulsed,
moans as she scrubs
specks of excrement
from the lime-scaled toilet,
yet she perseveres.

I call out:
“We’ve maybe a hundred and forty-five
more times left before we die.”

She says, “That’s a hundred and forty too many.”

We peck like vultures
at the bony remains
of each other.

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