Everything gets laminated.

Some people call it old age.
When your legs tremble like splitting earth
and the only way you can get around
is from the assistance of something with an engine
or something with a battery hum.
You take sepia photographs of your parents
cuddling on stairs and laminate them.
You wear them on a laniard around your neck,
you choke tears when you glance down,
patting your chest with a sweaty palm.

I cracked open a beer and
nurse a small layer of foam.
My wife sits cross-legged on the floor
jockying the waistband of her pants.
She thumbs through pictures.
Water drips into a dirty pan in the kitchen
and every few seconds she looks up at me
with a bent four by six in her hand,
her eyes saying, "Please go shut off the faucet."

The head of my beer disappears
into long gulps of tan.
There's a stack of upside-down pictures at my wife's feet,
and the drips turn into a thin whisper of dishpan ping.
She hands me a small binder.
"Why not look through this for some pictures?"
I draw the bottle to my lips,
"I have nothing in my life worth laminating."
She lets out a fake yawn,
"Maybe you're right."