You,

not unhandsome, dark, perhaps of Middle East descent,
who’s just come in the door at the speed of
a second-ring bellhop
carrying a neat cone of not many flowers
from the florist’s down the road
but unsmiling, focussed, almost fiercely anxious
as if you were a well-trained rifleman
yet fearing that you might have missed one vital point in training –
what are you bringing from an anxious past
on this, perhaps, lifetime’s vital day
for the girl already waiting there whom
alas I cannot see to burden with my assumptions –
what are you bringing from your past
besides those flowers, to take
into your anxiously-hoped-for future together?
No, you may not indeed, right now, be worthy of ‘her hand’;
– nor may she, indeed, of yours;
that’s, perhaps,
the miracle of marriage.

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