It means our wedding pictures
are still on the dash, covering the speedometer
because, these days, I know what sixty-five feels like,

and it means forgetting to put on lipstick at the stoplight,
and unbutton one more button on my blouse.

It means another peanut butter sandwich for lunch,
in a Ziploc bag from shelf-papered cabinets,
emblems of adulthood,
like the casserole dishes and TV trays
I still haven’t mailed the thank you notes for,

and it means afternoon tears quickly dried with potholders,
steaming pans familiar with Hamburger Helper,

a table set with chipped plates and flowers
long past their expiration date,
an anniversary afterthought.

It means my welcome-mat smile,
is flat and footprinted.
And my coat rack embrace,
waits, stiff-armed, for the dregs of your day.

And even though it means sharing the last napkin,
the TV remote, the creaking bedsprings,
the burnt brownie,
and only pretending to like it,

as long as it means you-wash-and-I’ll-dry
the dishes,
your hands,
my tears,

I’ll take it.