“Retirement,”
my wife whispers.
Time for her to write,
time for her to grade no more,
forever.

I hear, “time to die” and
“roadway to my grave.”)

I see her “no more nose to the grindstone”
as a twelve foot orange flywheel of nothing-to-do
chasing me down an empty Jersey sidewalk
screeching “Boredom! Boredom! Boredom!”
‘til I jump on four unattended Harleys
to spend a final dying year
speeding nowhere with my wife
in all directions.