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I still think of you as being chained to him.
Because of that, I know that, though you
Came to me, and clung, dependent it had
Seemed, you couldn’t give yourself to me,
And, look, now thirty years have passed.
Your kids and mine, who’d played together,
As we pantomimed a love which never
Could come into being, circle us with
Their own kids, and we, so old and still
Not lovers, dote on them, not on each
Other. We pass in the park and smile.
Neither of us tries to speak. You still
Are chained to him.


© Lawrence Beck 2023