When the indoor life is harmlessly glimpsed
in a lighted window against the dark
the aesthetics of your life needs nothing more.
You know the joy of being in bed,
reading in a warm house during a storm.
British mystery, a lovely lady drowned on a European tour.
Or having golf on, Saturday afternoon, as you plan
a visit to an historical house the following Sunday.
You loved presenting yourself to me as a sexy bore.
There was nothing I could do with you,
except to make love to you when you desired it,
at your home, or my home, following small talk and tea.
We would enter into the woods or linger by the shore
and it was always about kissing. You were still mostly young.
I bathed you in kisses. Remember?
We had no ambition. We got old fast.
The life demanding nothing, the life which takes care of itself—even that life doesn’t last.