Not as Young as they Feel
 
After gourmet sex,
they entwine like twins in a womb.
Doze under exhaustion’s ether.
Twenty years ago even,
they would be free to slumber until morning.
But in middle age,
sleep must be prepared for like a journey,
a check list of pills for pain, cholesterol, blood pressure…
nightclothes, stripped off in present tearing lust,
retrieved from floor and pulled back on,                      
sheets smoothed, pillows plumped, duvet adjusted,
the final pee.
A Night Night kiss
then easing onto back and side,
the width of a double bed growing between them.

Fiona Sinclair

If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased to hear from you.