June 9.
A day that every other day
wants to be.
A day that wears snowball robes
among
daffodil trimmed
avenues,
singing a knot-tie
ditty that
clanks
with balls hooked
to short,
short
chains.
A day frosted with
pockets full
of posy,
cakes layered
with ashes
and
ashes,
dances,
twirls,
smiles,
until Bride and
groom
both fall
down.
6 years pester at them.
Knock, Knock, Knocking
on their skin, crawls
under epidermal
rugs
where it reaches up,
plucks at arm hair
follicles
one
by
one
creating a trail of annoyance
on
loving arms.
The pester years
crawl throughout
their underlying
crust,
burrowing themselves
deep
within,
until old Bride and
old Groom
fall down
in despair.
June 9 approaches.
A day that no other day wants
to be.
A day that wears soiled
tablecloths among
champagne
crashes,
singing a thunder
roar
lullaby to
heart shackles
that
clank, in pieces,
together.
A day full of
frozen hands stuffed
in pockets caked
with
ashes and ashes
of the past,
aches,
pains,
tears,
until Bride
and Groom
both fall down
in surrender.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 