like any other kind
of license.
one for hunting, (dear,
or deer?)
or
one for driving cars,
or tractors, or
big rigs on the interstate.
it felt like
a permission slip of sorts, for
two adults
to do what two adults do when
they've fallen in love
and want
to make a go of it.
house, yard, picket fence.
saturday barbeque with relatives
and friends.
her books and mine suddenly
side by side
on the shelves,
shoes and clothing,
money,
entangled.
matrimony.
and yet, she seemed angry on
the ride over
to the courthouse.
the sun seemed to have already
peaked
at ten a.m. .
overcast with the threat
of ice in the sky.
i remember looking over at her,
hands gripping the wheel,
her face long
and dark,
suddenly older
than i remembered
her to be
and feeling
this resentment.
a sense of mistake in her eye
and now
coming over me.
but we paid, her credit
card swiped.
we signed. we agreed
to agree that all
things would
be wonderful
and fine.
and the bored heavy
clerk with blue hair,
who seemed sad
and lonely, married herself,
no doubt,
punched down her stamp
making it official.
we had 45 days to tie the knot.
and what a tight knot it would be,
tied on the last day, at the last
hour,
with no call from the governor,
no reprieve.
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