'A Portrait', by John Grey
There was little love in their marriage.
It was just a coming together of two people
with some inherent comedy, the odd dramatic possibility.
If it was a film, no one would have watched it.
They tell me it was entered into in good faith.
Just as I figured - good faith was to blame.
At least without love, romantic feelings were never an issue.
They could cook, chop wood, iron and build bookcases without interference.
And get intoxicated when necessary and not have any secrets to spill.
And even have children, love all three of them (that other kind of love).
The best thing was they could talk freely with one another
about hemorrhoids or garbage or leaking taps
and not be disappointed that the subject wasn’t roses.
They stayed together for forty years and then he died
Had she truly loved him, she’d have gone fruit-bats.
Instead, she muddled along that limited road to her own destiny.
Her funeral notice said, “Flowers are fine but please, no trumpets.”
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, Trampoline and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.