On Our 45th

At this stage, chocolates

cannot be found

in our abode. They’d just

melt away— the apartment

at 86 degrees. Our matching

floral sweaters? Have swollen

at the waist like

mauve balloons, unbuckled

like that belt from

Value Village. Everyone thinks

I’m Amish with suspenders.

The sunhat hardly helps.

Blossoms would

simply slump

within their vase,

like you by the end of

cribbage. At least I

stay awake, stroke your thinning

hair as you retire.

Our bed springs

are like new. I can’t sweep you

off your feet. That was surely pre-

Yahoo chat. The days of wine &

mullets. Metamucil’s not the same.

But I can take that corn broom

to the kitchen, clean the

crumbs of toast

I couldn’t bend and toss away.

Our tissues

are for noses

and our drool. My face has

not been lipsticked

in 20 years.

Our evenings? Would rival

Rip Van Winkle’s.

Watching our wallpaper

fade is about as Indiana

Jones as we can get.

But there’s still a single

glass upon the counter—

there to serve us both—

this exchanging of our germs,

without wince or hesitation.

Like the time we traded

dentures, laughed ourselves

to sleep. Silly, hopeless

romantics that we are.

Andreas Gripp

October 29, 2026

photograph: Dunca Daniel / Dreamstime