the waffle iron

the first marriage
was a sham,
two children
walking down the aisle.
peach fuzz
and baby fat,
me in a white
disco suit, her in a
fluffy white dress
as if she was an angel
falling from heaven
or a three tiered cake
made by an aunt for Pittsburgh.
there was chicken on
every plate, asparagus,
and a limited two
drink open bar.
a local band
of long haired old men
played proud mary
and the hokey pokey.
a week later,
after a one night stay
in ocean city
at the Carousel Hotel,
she was carrying her new
toaster
oven across the street
to where her mother lived
and waited with open arms
and tears in her eyes.
in the other hand was
the wedding album
tucked into her blue
carryon on suitcase.
the lawyers and a local
bishop quickly
washed the whole thing
down the drain.
a relief for both of us.
I still have the waffle iron.