I listen patiently,

Which is not my wont;

You ramble on,

Which is not your way.

We have come to that place

Where old shoes fit most

Comfortably on feet

Too tired to try too many on

Though it annoys me to hear

You whine, and you, to know

I am so annoyed, still

There is something like

A warm quilt on a November night

That blankets us when we

Talk.

The hours go by

And I think you can hear it

When I roll my eyes;

Still:

The old shoes don’t squeak

When we walk in them

And we seem to walk

More often

These long and lonely nights

10/06/2003