Poem by Ken Nye
As the years go by and passions cool,
we make love in places that
twenty-five year olds only dream about.
We make love in the kitchen,
right at the table,
with a Scrabble board the mattress
and hints to help the other
our passionate kisses.
We make love in the car,
thrilling to beautiful scenery
or a rarely seen wild animal.
We make love in front of the fireplace,
watching a game show
while we share our latest craft creations.
We make love on the middle school hockey field,
proudly watching our granddaughter
dribble the ball down the field
with half the opposing team
in hot pursuit.
We make love in the bathroom,
where I marvel at the beauty of my
companion and friend of so many years
and tell her as she lathers all over
that she is the prettiest girl I know.
We make love in bed with our pajamas on,
she curled up against me, spoon on spoon,
feeling each other’s warmth and whispering before
falling into sleep, 'I love you.'
We are so shamelessly promiscuous,
we make love in church, for god’s sake,
sharing the hymnal hand on hand,
touching during prayers to say to the other
without words or looks,
'You are the rock of my happiness.'
Wonderfully, heavy breathing is still in our repertoire.
But the bond between us that challenges even death
is the love made here and there,
time and time again,
side by side.
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