How many times have I, squelching at the splash of cars,
held on to him under the beastly rain?
From the beginning, my reputation
for
fondue au fromage banquets was a big mistake.
Invitations stated a maximum of two children per couple.
Each person brought their own brand of immaturity.
J appeared late-with canned beans,
the Cold War, my discovery of steam power:
He had a balanced sense of nimbostratus.
He labeled his nuptial ring using elements
in the periodic table. He hinted about his relations
to epitaphs that didn't make the Spoon River
Anthology for purely economic reasons.
Why expect a serious relationship with dishwashing liquid
or scrub blindly at objects below sud level?
For six years, I faked my salvation
under his collapsible bird-cage designs.
On marriage licences: you see one, you've seen them all.
Luckily, they fall into disuse and are forgotten.
Like walking canes, dear-john letters
are still considered heirlooms and hence rightful dowries.
