What We Want

When bed knob brass has been burnished

and table tops sanded smooth,

when life’s fire has cooked the spirits off

and the clay pots have cooled,

what you want and what I want are the same:

to climb up innocently into the old rocker,

having heard the sweet sound of our name,

wearing what we’re wearing or not wearing

and to be held by hickory-hard arms

with hands warm as goose down pillows,

singing our song in rhythm to wood and earth

beneath the curved chair bottoms

in a room where we were thrice born

and two times bound to die.

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