She

She is the one, the pride of Mr. Clean,
more diligent than Harriet and June
were in the 'fifties. Her adept routine
won't find her drinking in the afternoon.
She is the one who, rosary in hand,
can pray in Latin, who reports each cent
she's earned and spent, who seems a trifle bland,
who comes across, with or without consent.
She is the one who takes things in her stride,
who gives the benefit of doubt, who sees
the glass half full, who is a bona fide
believer in the bright side. Sorry. She's
the one with wings who came out of the sky
and took up residence on Earth, not I.  

In retrospect

for Hugo

Today I found that picture of us two.
The one we posed for in a photo booth
somewhere in Montreal a week before
our Caitlin's birth. With sepia smiles suspended
in time, we flaunt our crazy love on cue,
a study in naiveté and youth.
Three decades later.  Now we know the score.
Our journey's end surmised, if not transcended,
perhaps another portrait's overdue.
And yet, back then, had we but known the truth
of what would follow, we'd have beamed the more,
embracing this wild ride still far from ended.
And there we'd be, as now, a man and wife,
holding onto each other for dear life.