Of a Marriage (for George and Elaine) Of eighty-nine years there are now hours. What‘s left is the shuffle of a queue— like a passenger committed to a flight whose details his disease had arranged, whose instructions his body follows, obediently, like all first-time travelers, to the letter. He shifts, wakens, morphine-bleary, tries his old bluster, then immediately drops away, as if suddenly called to answer a knock at the front door at the far end of the house, as people come and sit and having set there, touch him or look, then leave. He becomes agitated —his legs scissor…