She knows his body better than he does.

She can tell his carbuncles from furuncles,
knows poison ivy from pimples and impetigo
from a harmless rash.

Jim and Mary take up positions in Adirondack chairs
waiting to be surprised by a passing parade of cars.

They wonder whose going to the Pow Wow,
and who is heading for the beach at Panmure.

Winnebagos from away lumber along
like a line of elephants at a circus,
heading for a camping vacation.

Speeders are always from Quebec.

Mary sips a cup of Constant Comment tea
laced with a shot of bourbon.
Jim downs tumblers of Captain Morgan’s rum.

They inhale the succulent scent of wisteria
creeping up their drainpipe, and the undistilled fragrance
emanating from a bed of hyacinths and freesias.

Before they turn in, Mary asks if the “orange” in his kidney
is hurting him tonight.

As lacey shadows fall under a honey locust tree,
they settle into the stillness of fading light.
She prays for the ordinary miracle of their loving bond
to be sustained for all eternity.