Sunday in the park

Your jeans are tight on your thighs,  you are unshaven, beautiful.   I’m surprised that I notice,  I never really see you anymore.  Arm in arm we  linger at the duck pond where you pull a packet of bread crumbs from your back pocket. The feathery creatures  come rushing up, their seeking  eyes expectant.  Mostly, I admire their detachment.   Lately when we make love it is without  passion,  lifeless.  I think about other men, I imagine that.   I would never want you to know. You are so pure,  so trusting,  it is frightening.  Sitting on the park bench lovers pass by, one is fierce and arrogant,  the other emaciated,   eyes corpse like.   They don’t speak.  I sigh,  like one who loves but is far away.