he felt like he was walking
on marshmallows -or cotton balls-
as he stepped under
the faux tuscan villa arch,
an artful simulation of a ruin,
to speak his marriage vows.
the world swirled
through his dizzy mind:
the late september sun
a bit too warm
for his thirty dollar
blue corduroy suit from Sears,
the frog-faced minister's words
crowded by the excited
calling of a crow perched
in the oak that shaded
the table where platters
of finger food awaited
the reception.
a couple whispered
and giggled as they passed a joint.
some white-haired out-of-towners
from the valley glared at them.
so this is what it feels like:
to be thoroughly enveloped
in an infinite and endless now.
until the years of unpaid bills
and unshared distractions,
her mysticism,
and his midnight walking,
his secret thrill when
the pixie-haired girl in the office
began giving him the eye.
because flirting doesn't hurt
he told himself. until it did.
but not as much as his spouse's
afternoon rendezvous
with the unemployed painter
and his back-to-the-fifties splatter.
so when he met a copy writer
with a knack for jazz and oral sex,
his decades of devotion
eroded from rote endearments
and tiptoed down the road to lies.
forever is easier to promise
when you're twenty-five.
