(for Dickie)

It may be like writing in white ink on a white page—
love returned, invisible, predictable, some might say—

but here’s to the old love, the long love,
the no-one-thought-it-would-last love,

the paradox of the I-can’t-stand-you-right-now
love, the please-be-quiet love, but then,

later, let me enumerate the hundred tiny
things I love about you, even when you’re

driving me crazy—and no, this is not about
your driving—this is about the innumerable

small kindnesses you put in my hands,
the hours spent working hard to serve me

better, and how I do the same for you, this
drama-free reciprocal love, this level of

contentment that so many wish for,
satiated, happy, convinced that we made

a good choice long ago—you, the one I
return to again and again, and you to me,

this imperfect, long-term bilateral association,
love bestowed and conveyed, thankfully,

blessedly requited, as all love should be.