Wedding Cake II

A new bride at twenty four, married
on the rebound, I'd have to say.

We moved to a place on the wrong side of town.
Venetian blinds clung to the windows. I'd
replace them with curtains from Sears, both blue
and flowery, but too short for the windows -
like kids in hand-me-downs.

Three months go by. Ivan's asked to be
best man at his friend's wedding in St. Louis.
Then suddenly, his grandfather, a Pittsburgh
icon, dies and now Ivan has to choose:
funeral or wedding.

What goes 'round, comes 'round, Karma you'd call it.
Ivan makes his choice, and I acquiesce.
We leave the smokey city behind us
on the windy Thursday of Thanksgiving.
I'm glad for a break from my screeching
seventh graders.

I take along my basket with patterns and pins.
Howard and Ellen welcome us into
their drafty flat. Saturday, we'll all be
dancing at the wedding.

That night, trying to sleep, I hear a tip-tapping,
the undeniable tapping of roaches
on tented tin foil covering the turkey,
tip-tapping their own wedding dance.

Once home, two roaches boldly waltz
from my basket. They colonize.
The red-headed landlady refuses to help.

I'm cleaning on a Sunday afternoon.
Ivan has once again gone off with Bill
to chase trains, to shoot them comin' round a bend.

We'd stashed the plastic bride 'n groom from off
the wedding cake high up on a kitchen shelf.
As I swipe my rag, half dozen roaches scatter

north, south, east 'n west from the folds of her gown.
Stayed in that marriage nineteen long years.
Whys and wherefores, don't ask.










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