When the two of us are old—me bald of course
and you (it’s so unfair!) a distinguished gray—
we’ll take a stroll the first suggestive day
the yard shows signs of life, and I’ll commend
the shape we both are in, and even you’ll
admit we make a damn attractive pair
for our age (we say in chorus), as we share
the shade and shyly revel in what sun
we dare expose ourselves to (“For an hour?”
“No need to panic.” “Who panicked? All I said
was ‘When both of us are old...’” “And then I said
we both look fine—let’s leave it at that for now.”)
“You said we make a damn attractive pair
which I don’t intend to spoil by sunstroke...”
“In Spring?” “The season when we found our bench,
the perfect one we bought at Pottery Barn
when we wanted a place to sit at the shady end
of the backyard—remember how moss encased it
in weeks (and how the salesman claimed that moss
was a Pottery-Barn Special for May)?” “Well,
so much for sunstroke. I also remember how
our quarrels ended.” “Did they end? How?”
“I’ll show you—maybe the charm still works.
Let me demonstrate, while the mood is high...
“I suspect kisses improve on a piece of furniture
that suggests reclining—let’s try our bench again,
mossy yet rather less messy in the Spring...”
“Strange how memories collect.” “How do they?”
“I said it was strange, that means no one knows.
What’s even stranger is that mine will be
yours as well.” “Well... I know why that is:
it makes a useful arrangement. All those shared
memories—mutual, in common, or just joint—
continuously make between us other links,
even imaginary ones, things we just suppose
we remember, things we’ll prefer to make up,
so that we’ll find, when the two of us are old
—old enough to imagine being young—
we’ll each be living on something that our lives
could never afford us except by being older
than we are, and even older than we were.
Here in this garden, in a May still as young
as we imagined ourselves to be, we’ll collect
all the gold of our youth, and even some
of the fool’s gold, when we can tell them apart.
Thus we’ll reheat our trembling ancient limbs
(how the process will succor our weathered hearts!)
until we believe we’re living in our past,
and then I’ll give you one of my famous smiles,
even though I can’t stop shaking my head
and you’ll remind me of the way you used to talk
even though you can’t help stammering now.
Sitting under the trellis, on our famous bench,
we’ll look into each others’ eyes (shining now
and not just with tears but with real pride)
sharing the shade and shyly revealing
in what sun we dare expose ourselves to
when the two of us are old and I’ll be bold
enough to praise the shape we’re in and you’ll
admit we make a damn attractive pair.”
This poem appeared in the July 12, 2012 issue of the magazine.