Sunday Morning

I feel a poem coming on, she said.
Her husband snickered.
What’s so funny about that?
It’s not funny that you want to write a poem. Just funny how you said it.
—I think we just wrote one.

The peaches are so sweet and juicy! she exclaimed.
Like you, he whispered.
—Your memory serves you well.

I was thinking about our trip to Luxembourg, he shared.
Yes, she said, it was lovely.
We never went to Luxembourg,
he chortled.
—That’s cruel.

You have more wrinkles than I do!
he declared.
You’ve been married to me,
she replied— for forty years.
What does that mean? he queried.
And I’ve been married— to you.