David James

In the middle of making love in the afternoon,
our new twist after forty-six years
of marriage, which seems to be
working just fine, my wife says,
“Did you take the garbage out last night?”
which is like spilling a full beer
into a basket of potato chips or dropping
your keys, wallet and shoes in the punch bowl.
“Yes, of course,” I say, trying to sound polite,
not wanting the romance to slip away
into daily conversation even though, in reality,
I forgot to take out the garbage. My goal
at this crucial moment is to stay in
this crucial moment which, in my mind,
gives me permission to tell a little lie, see,
and when my wife says, “Okay. Slower,”
I know we’re back on track, that true love
can rise above all the garbage this world can find.