You didn't say you loved men with suits
dressed as barflys, buzzing around the counter
for that one last drink. Home a memory slushed
in ice cubes and excuses.

You didn't say either, you needed a sunday church- goer
dressed in a grey suit of psalms and canticles
and ropes of revelation wonders
which would send you scampering to the pages
of eternal life, wisdom and penitence.

You didn't say that you wanted a one-eyed wonder
with the other eye permanently fixed
on butts and guts, ***** and tubes
and one night stands in a circus tent
of  innuendos.

You did say, however, that you wanted
a quiet life, of roses and candlelight dinners
and wine chilling in a bucket of excuses
of fun and frolic and fame
and when I married you,
you danced the night off
in satin, confetti and cake and whatever
and I admired your mother
in her wonderful
up
lifting
dress.

I married right.

Author Notes

Joking.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 23 days ago

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