Maybe Nothing Special
By William Hardy
Email: wchardy61 at yahoo dot com
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April 03, 2008
There were days—
These were the plain ones—
Where the rhythms of the twilight hours
Ran one more time over the groove
Etching it just that little bit deeper
When our dog with the greyhound head
And the we-don't-know-what body—
Maybe coyote but with cow hair—
Yawped and poked us in sensitive places
When we got home
And then rowled and peed when my daughter visited
This was also when the big screen TV
Watched each of us passing back and forth
Through our sideways bowling alley sitting room
Trying to hook us with shimmering and shouting
And three
Maybe four computers were humming
And Husband Number One said what's for dinner
And Daughter Number One cussed about her laundry
Which no one had done for her
And Daughter Number Two made an appearance
To get her homework inspected
So maybe next quarter she could have her game privileges restored
And my son called from the deck of the Gettysburg
And then my mom
For an hour and seven goodbye-cycles
And all the other dogs
And all the cats
Worked out their interpersonal dynamics
On the pet level
It was one of those groove-deepening days
Or all of them
When I realized I was already
Husband Number Two
Without ceremony or declaration
Or legal standing
But with every other weight and grace
Of marriage
And I looked at you
And us
And knew it was a good marriage
All of us the better for it
And we sealed it again that night
With the rising and falling of our breathing
In our down bed
About the author:
Some know me as Will, some as Bill, or Dad. I'm already past 45, which I don't believe is possible until I reach for my glasses or think twice before moving large objects. I suspect both of these things are actually the result of having a desk job, which is writing in various guises. I love images, and stories, and I love sound—I think Tom Keith has one of my top five dream jobs.
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