stripped clean still

That long ago we drove ourselves
To the thermal pool and floated hours
In its uterine calm, naked as newts;
Then hauled our sapped bliss back uphill
To the cheap hotel; and on a bed
That had plainly borne the labors of love
For at least three generations of roamers,
We faced the choice of using the rest
Of our new lulled ease in joining our selves
In a trial knot of mutual skin--
Our excellent hides that were each then fine
As rawhide gets.
The trial worked,
Then worked (with frequent repeats and variants--
Newfound knots as brilliant as any
Known to an eagle scout) for the years
Till I was effectively sheared off smooth
Below the waist.
Nine years of bearing that
With no loud grumble; and here again
You volunteer what we have left--
Your same hide, seasoned a little but still
As fine as any well-made glove containing
A trusty hand dispensing grace.
I take it, new as a playground boy
Confronted with the actual dream
Of proferred skin, and offer it
What I have now, the parts that work.
They prove sufficient; you bloom on schedule,
Old faithful mate.
Weeks later, basking,
I feel stripped clean still; in service again,
A scow called back from years in mothballs--
Eager to tow, dredge, breast high seas
If that brief duty bears you on
As it does me.

[Reynolds Price, "Twenty-One Years", from The Best American Poetry 1996]