45 and rainy. How much
we thought he lied. His 'fever illness'
causing him to walk with a cane,
his track/field University life before,
his dual names as 'cultural I.D.'.
And her. Her tongue wagged, good
gossipy tales, with knit brows,
self-righteously taut as a sexual breath,
her blush, her chuckle, her fingering
lift of the Dry Sémillon, epicurean quaff.
And now. Her on machines, him blind,
missing the imperfections we all share.