Sunset
My mother-in-law is in love,
at 84, Rose found Milt, 86,
in the dementia ward
of Paradise Gardens in
Sarasota, Florida.
They hold hands, eat meals, ensemble,
play “I Spy” in the game room
and take walks, but not too far
as they are in a secure passage,
locked in love for their final dance.
But holding hands and kissing
like teen agers is not enough,
they want permission
to consummate their ardor,
juices still flowing,
brain, still alert to touch and flirting,
muscles want to reach and wrap,
but the doctors and nurses have to approve
sex behind closed doors,
exploring freely with eyes closed,
the inner thigh, the ass, the hot spots,
becoming young again,
running hands over wrinkles and scars,
flab, dry patches and red dots,
a last chance to feel passion better than
blood pressure pills and Xanax,
better than eyes open facing the endless
sameness of their last days,
the regrets of life lived,
the children that don’t visit,
in sex there is just now,
an epiphany that says fuck you to their gatekeepers.
