by Tria Wood
Let’s get old in a house with stairs
so we’ll have something to complain about together
hanging onto the banister, each other,
as we hoist ourselves up and down.
I don’t need grandchildren, so let’s hang
laundry and petunias from the swingset,
send our son packing to New York or San Francisco, hell,
to Europe if he wants, even Nepal. He’s smart. He’ll find his way.
Let’s get old in a house with no HOA — we’ll build
a stone grotto for Aphrodite in the yard, ice its ceiling with seashells,
nurse cold longnecks in its blue light
and make out like teenagers again.
I’ll roast Cornish hens if you’ll scrub
the pots like always. You’ll sing tunes I won’t recognize
until the chorus, tell me again and again about how you fell
off the barbed wire fence to get your scar, and I won’t mind at all.
Let’s get old in a house with a coffee shop
round the corner where we’ll roost at the counter
side by side and say the usual, settle into magazines
while we sip and tip double on Sundays just because.
If I start to shout, it’s only because my ears
don’t always catch my voice; my laugh will be louder, too,
and I’ll lean into your shoulder in the garden, under the eaves,
to catch the kiss that always waits for me
right there on your cheek, next to your grin.
Tria Wood's work has appeared in Snowy Egret, Arcadia, The Mom Egg, Bayou Magazine, and other publications.