Promises
His hat sat
cocked,
toward his chin
like a swainish boat,
afeared in masculinity,
not coy; cocksure,
but rebuffing
the skeptical in-laws.
Sharp, his uniform,
raven-black, white t-shirt,
seriously buffed oxfords.
Did he even move his lips
when he spoke the script;
she remembers hers,
insistent on the promise.
“I do,” delivered. I doubts,
reserved past the honeymoon.
White the glare of the moon.
Spectator stars
keep their mouths shut.
An angel, with a sure smile,
rests her hand upon her chin.
She knows it will take a while
for claws to retract, to polish
their tongues. She has time;
they think they’ve none,
but they do “I do,” looking ahead,
looking back at the good times,
looking at future generations.
Hoping that the kids keep
their promises. An angel
has her eyes on them too.
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