Posted in Truth


We are early of course
lateness sometimes tolerated, frequently excused
today unpardonable, safety margin greater than normal
the groom is already there. Standing outside. Beaming.

He looked as a child does
on the last morning of school
before the long, long summer holidays
that feeling of last day abandon better,
than new day belonging.

The bride de rigueur late
her groom beams
and pays no mind
a long, fly fish courtship
patience has waited and waited. He can wait some more.

Corinthians is read. Chapter and verse
Love is defined
the minister adds concurrence
vows exchanged
the bride permitted to be kissed. The groom beams

Champagne amidst the scents of apprenticed summer
the precocious yearnings of flowers
grass becoming hay
high dried dust. The groom beams.

Speeches are spoken
toasts toasted
tiered cake cut
photographs store the present, for the future. The groom beams.

The sun softens from white to yellow
to butterscotch
a vintage convertible transports the couple to Utopia
the groom beams. Has he ever been this happy?

The same day
a different decade
a different bride
a different ending. Hopefully.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.