Promises

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.