I part my hair behind, but the streaks of gray (TS Eliot)
expose an imperfect comb-over of my
globe of wisdom that shines in the light.
Maybe I should "chill out", accept the dark night, (Dillon Thomas)
gently. My wife offers a toast, and our cups touch.
And I raise the "wit" level from reflection to suggestion.
A couple's contest, we've engaged in for decades,
except she's playing chess while my game
is checkers. After a few glasses, I dare: (TS Eliot)
"My dear Love, I begin: 'Your thighs are (William Carlos Williams)
(still) like appletrees whose blossoms touch
the sky.'" Too intense, too soon?
Her eyes sparkle, and she replies, "Did your
diminished thing just shift? Or is it just (Robert Frost)
too much wine giving me double vision?"
Alas, I divert and grab my cap. The bottle (Tony Zurlo)
was empty, and we needed more peanuts,
so I sneak gently into the kitchen for more props.