At Twilight

When evening comes, and I wax pensive,
I grow a wee bit apprehensive.
I start on hearing a lattice clatter
And wife may say, “Dear, what’s the matter?”
She pats my cheek and fondly hugs me,
And asks me what it is that bugs me.
She’s sweet as can be and never a scold,
And me very near a half-century old.
Young in a way, but still fifty’s fifty —
Stout through the middle and no longer nifty —
Has the back screen been bolted?
Did I lock the garage?
She’s really the brave one;
I’m just camouflage.