Three hundred times.
We made love to each other
three hundred times.
Hard to forget
three hundred times.
It’s true. I kept track.
My second wife made
me destroy all the letters
but in a dead friend’s attic
I found my thick log
hard copy of that year’s sex.
I was young,
you were much much younger.
Anyway, the records fluttered from a gift,
a parting gift,
a book you gave me.
Our Inward Journey.
Your wedding announcement
fell out unwrinkled.
Often wondered.
Three hundred times.
Hear you two are still together.
Thirty years of marital bliss.
Congratulations.