Benedictions Of Age

He watches her perfect legs,
mesmerized by how their perfection
is enhanced by her jogging,
enhanced by her jogging shorts.
He imagines her lying on his bed,
her perfect legs soft, softly
illuminated by the firelight,
her jogging shorts lying on the floor
between the bed and the fireplace,
her perfect smile inviting.

He’s not a perfect man anymore.

He smiles and remembers
his own perfection; remembers
what it was like for him
all those years ago when,
whenever he returned home,
there was always a perfect woman,
close to fire, waiting. He can’t
recall most of their names,
but he remembers their legs
and their smiles: the perfectly soft glow,
the welcoming warmth.

These are the benedictions of age,
he thinks: even when the fire burns low,
there is memory and imagination;
even in an empty room
I am never alone.


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