Anniversary Song

That first summer he was water
rinsing through her hair, underbelly
of the cat; she a crisp clean shirt,
baize top of the desk that he dreamed at…

and if he’s sometimes now the grease
stuck to the bottom of the oven,
she the shelf he bangs his head on
standing up… they’re also golden

rings, living on the taken hand.
And sometimes he or she will look
within, around, and slowly smile
at 2 – and 8 – and 97.

Copyright © August 2020 Rob Lock