He walks ahead

He walks ahead of her now

as if the bond between them

has been stretched

like the elastic band

on the yellowed white slip

that still sits in the back of her drawer;

the slip she wore on the day

he married her.

Back then they were inseparable,

held hands as they walked,

whispered and giggled until dawn,

dipped strawberries in chocolate

or champagne

and fed them to each other,

took long drives along the canal

listening to the frogs and crickets

by the light of the moon.

He craved the smell

of her freshly washed tousle of hair.

She loved the thrill she felt in his arms.

Like the undergarment

she hangs onto without reason

and its hopeless misshapen waist

their journey asunder was invisible.

Two babies,

a downturn in the business,

tumultuous days

and exhausted nights

with two teenagers,

his way versus hers,

both needing to be right.

Their complacency and arrogant

assumption of forever

breaking down the fibers and

the tightness of their bond.

At home the cars have been serviced,

the yard freshly mowed and

the house has a new coat of paint,

but he walks ahead of her now

and she speaks to him

with contempt in her voice

and he answers her in grunts;

but they are neither able to let go

of the flaccid fiber that binds them

nor fortify its strength

with any more certainty

than she can mend or toss that worn out slip.