Third Marriage

by Jan Gracie Mulcahy

from All The Way Home

We are well worn gloves, shrunk

to father/daughter mellowness,

shabby, pre-loved,

garnering ghosts that share our separate beds,

where unfinished whispers and resentments

nibble at remnants of our intimacy.

Stale rituals, time bound to the news,

we eat meals as bombs devour human lives.

I used to care once, longed for a string quartet,

candles and a glass of wine, now candles

burn only in a blackout accompanied by silence

from the sullen television set.

On such nights, we fight over trifles

never say sorry, wait to forget.