She is becoming an old bitch
and I an old bastard.
I can see it from afar
as she walks from the ATM
still some distance away
in her topcoat and boots,
hair pulled back,
thick rimmed glasses.
I can see it when I glance in the mirror
or the shop windows
or hear my grumpy voice complaining and
It isn't as easy as it was before.
The fun is over or less easily gotten.
Unable to confess secret pleasures
we huddle down
stare out at the mist
breath in the haze
swim in the damp air like Li Bai's unending verses.
Chuangze's confusing ballads are how we
embrace the malaise.
Fate is how we measure the days.
Life becomes Swiss Miss cocoa
or spicy cod with lemon juice
or fresh roasted coffee,
crepes with sweet sauce,
and rice roasted in a flat iron skillet
covered in beans.
I am becoming an old bastard
and she is turning into an old bitch
well before our time.