SUNDOWN RHYTHMS ON HOLIDAYS
“Don’t you miss Marie, a wee bit? Don’t you?” She asks him. “Yup,” he answers quietly.
1. Temps Perdu
Her aches are different this timearound: not the knees, head, neck,
name it and she calls it heartaches.
There was a time, there was a time,
when sundowns were happy times.
They would gather around like birds
hopping on newly sprung rosebushes.
A sundown curtain call. A day is done
but not her day. She tiptoes into rooms
turning lights off, picking up left toys,
scraping stuck gums on study tables,
checking how snug a lass is tucked in,
a bar of a lullaby quickly hummed
to hush the toddler back to slumber.
2. Their Conversation
Tonight, she silently asks him: Why?Why do they grow up and go away?
Seek their own levels of living and joy,
he promptly grumbles. Like we must,
while we wait in the crannies of quiet
corridors, find full quicksilver thrills
because we have earned them. Come.
Our bed looks so undisturbed, so neat,
when we should really be romping on it,
like those urgent times, lusty moments
stolen away from worries we promptly
forget as we gasp for air from frenzied
embraces under warm sheets. Hold on
she mutters: got to finish this program.
I missed it again last night when you
nagged me no end to visit Nirvana.
Why did you grow old? He asks quietly.
---Albert B. Casuga