IMPOSSIBLE BRIDES

 

 

Walking past the chapel,

our trip to the park over, we encounter

a wedding. 

 

Cocktail napkins litter the ground like

cherry blossom petals.

I hold your hand and squeeze

 

your thumb.  Bride is full and beaming. 

She calls out to guests, bouquet

in clutched fist.

 

What if I were to catch

that mass of flowers, buds of girly pink,

like the forgotten napkins?

 

Would it be a waste of a good toss?

We could fly to San Francisco,

both don white dresses, or you, a tux

 

with your favorite purple tie.

Our friend Roberto would cater

the reception, make those little cakes

 

you love, each with an exotic fruit placed

on top.  But we’d come back

unacknowledged and void.

 

We watch the bride and groom, holding hands,

just like us.  They are in love, just like us.

We continue our way home.