After fifty years
I recognize the relief
Of celibacy
They are old
With years of intimacy
Shared
He is frail and needs
To sit on his suitcase
In the queue
He might be Jesus
Taken lifeless from the Cross
And she the mother
Of all sorrows
The faces proclaim it
And beg the whole airport
To take note that there is
No sorrow to compare
No ministry more urgent
Dragging his jacket
Halfway down his arms
She rubs cold hands inside
The hot neck of his shirt
Cupping his weary face
In her palms and he remains
Motionless a victim
It is their chosen mode
Within the limits of choice
I would rather collapse
Alone in a heap and expire
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