Late night city traffic stills at last.
My bare feet press into the worn rug
that holds imprints from childhood.
I was visiting after years, no longer in place
there or anywhere. You came to join me
in the dimly-lit room, whisky in hand.

I’ve been faithful to your mother
for fifty-five years of marriage you said,
your gaze looking past me to measure
the weight of so much history.
Even though there were moments . . .
perhaps I kissed someone else once.

As she slept soundly up the hallway,
our voices conspiratorially low,
I tried to reckon with the revelation
of over half a century’s fidelity,
but even more so with your need
to assert this fact of loyalty.

What burden were you hoping to lift,
what price to calculate, what prize to claim.
And why choose me as your witness.
Was it an oblique bid to free me
from my own stubborn devotion
to a love that bore no fruit.