Love by toaster light

She melted, in her allolted 73 years, into a
domesticated fat-cat, all folds and chin hair.

She over there rushed her given 57 into 23
and looks more spent than melted,
aged nonetheless.

The man melted different
more overnight accident
than slow slide down
the middle years

and reached his wrinkled echo of youth
with more surprise and less fatigue
than the woman who makes
his sardine sandwich.

It all smells like pocket lint
and sticky condiment packets
and stale knock-off saltines
from the dollar store.

There's nothing to inherit.

Why is she still here?