Whe the Old Folks Make Love

Article excerpt

When the old folks make love,

they cry out softly in the dark.

They kiss each other's eyes and shoulders,

laugh and sleep, dream and wake

and murmur, "dearest."

Their eyelids flutter like gauze curtains.

They breathe into each other's mouths, softly.

She says, "I dreamed the children

were small again in our old house."

He says, "I dreamed of fly fishing."

When the old folks make love,

they frame each other's faces

with their hands,

like a favorite photograph.

They touch each other's lips and cheeks,

they melt together, not

with the raging, aching burst of summer,

but with a deep, slow sob

like the sound of a temple bell

coming up from Atlantis.

When the old folks make love

their bodies fit together like

pieces of a puzzle.

They sigh together in one single sigh.

One says, "This is so good."

The other smiles in the dark.

When the old folks make love,

they start in the kitchen

with coffee and The Times,

end up in bed

rubbing their feet together,

pulling each other's ears. …