Since Richard mentioned a line of this poem, I'll read this.
It's called "Between Aging and Old."
It's partly the love.
There's nothing as good as a successful marriage.
But there's a surprising amount of good in not
being in a lesser marriage.
And there's a great deal to be said for being alone.
You may not believe me, but your life is fitted to you.
It's exactly for you, only for you.
In the old days, I'd say, it's like a mistress
who's there for your pleasure.
That's what being alone is.
That's not the poem, really.
[LAUGHTER]
It's called "Between Aging and Old."
"I wake up like a stray dog belonging to no one.
Cold, cold in the rain.
Friendships outgrown or ruined.
And love, dear God, the women I have loved, now,
only names remembered, dead, lost, or old.
Mildness, more and more the danger.
Living among rocks and weeds to guard against wisdom,
along with the heart howling and refusing to let it
feed on mere affection.
Lying in the dark, singing about the intractable kinds
of happiness."