For Dirck
It's good to be old friends with nothing
on the agenda, no product to sell, no
need to persuade. Just a long stretch
of time, a long river that wears away
the edges, a way of floating past all
the messes, or letting them pass by us.
This is the kindest kind of habit as
we fiddle about the kitchen for an hour
or two, pouring Manhattans with dark
Luxardo cherries and Martinis with
pickled okra for one another, trading
the pieces of the world- books, poetry,
a song or an interview we heard on NPR-
the pieces we've picked up and saved
for the spaces between turns rolling
the Trivial Pursuit dice. And isn't this
nice, isn't this good? If this is where
we've arrived, at the shore of our old
age, with still a nice stretch of stillness
in which to calcify and gather our moss,
then I am happy to be here with you,
the two of us, going nowhere, at least
nowhere in particular, comfortable and
slow and free to be both foolish and wise.
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