The conversations become pithy.
Friendly still, but almost cut-off, like
someone pulled the cord on the power drill.
The atmosphere isn’t as

relaxed. It’s more of “where are we going”
“when are we getting there” Remember when
those things didn’t matter. Time was cookie-
dough batter you ate unbaked.

And there was no destination for anything
to shape. And that was Ok. You can’t
place your finger on it when it slips
away.  It becomes a grease stain

on your favorite pants. You’re stiffer than
your starched shirts. Talk is contrived. It hurts
almost like your bowel movements. There’s a
strain on every consonant. The silences

are filled with anything like that drawer
in your kitchen that your spouse wishes
you’d clean. But you never make time for it.
***** dishes come first.