Feminine Endings

We've worn out yet another Anno Domini.

We're twelve months -- if not wiser -- surely older.

You call it a relationship, this boulder

which hangs about me like a Shi-ite's bomb, and he,

at least, can choose his cut-off point.  From shoulder

to knee, you're (still) more Goldie Hawn than Golda

Meir, but we don't flow.  We ooze.  Like hominy

grits, turgidly.  But denser.  Stodgier.  Colder.

Where once fizzed bright electric, now hums static.

The best and worst of you is best termed "womanly" --

irrational, irascible, erratic.

I dare say I'm far worse.  Tot up each billable

pretentious and annoying polysyllable.

We're lamer, spenter, deader than Mitt Romney.