Into the Future


               a year in the life

No one sees
past the high fence
house/gold trim—
inside, a naked
woman: long gray
hair. She sits
at a piano, tinkles
a moody melody,
stirs the cat
curled on a pink
brocade cushion.
The man is dressed
in a flannel nightshirt.
He has nothing to do
today or tomorrow
or the day after…
The woman spins
on the piano stool.
Her silver hair
circles her breasts.
The cat lopes
atop the piano;
stretches in a tongue
of sun. Life is still
these days
their daughter
grown, gone but happy
in her freedom
living in familial
mountains. The man
gets up
from his deep
brushes a tendril
from his wife’s nipple
kisses it                she smiles
with eyes golden
in west-facing light.
The old
wood floor gives
under the dance.
Their steps: careless.

He never danced
with her before
this very moment;
not at their wedding,
not in forty years.

© 2015
Clare L. Martin