I’m the first born, so I pull chairs into circle formation.
I receive them: daughters, brothers, cousins, forgotten Aunts.
We gather around the punch bowl, chocolates wrapped in gold,
And the Texas sheet cake. Shiny gooey squares sitting on little red plates.
The strawberry slices on top look like hearts, or not,
But we support their 50 bitter and sweet years of marriage.
I pose them, because they never had the chance.
Hand-in-hand, in front of these witnesses
Mom cries through her repeat-after-me vows.
And when the officiant asks what 1 + 1 is
My Dad says “one” just as clear as day.
It’s finally adding up to be something absolute.
A “Plus One” poem for Poetic Asides
the kind of work
(the girl explains
to the boy)
that must be done
it’s the kind of work
are on the appearing
of a fine paper
(a hijinks for
must jinx mom’s
(the girl says)
with the softest whitest
bell that opens like
we must hang it prettily
enough in the living
they won’t fight about
that, that alone
get the scotch
we don’t want to leave
for Real Toads
Gawkers viewing Angie’s Inspirations
Goodness knows, I love me some gawkers!!!
Though, I believe the correct term here is ‘bloggers.’
Thanks for the warm welcome I’ve received from all of you.
A special shout-out goes to the following addresses: