r james sterzinger
He wore a black tuxedo and
Pleated striped trousers
A smile: half Xanax
Half Wellbutrin or something.
She in an a-train gown
White, wreath of flowers
In her hair
Blonde as a two lies.
Seems like a waste of good
Money now. Twenty-two years
Of unremembered gifts, and cards,
One freakish night in a motel.
She waited, anxious for
His I do.His voiced commitment
Now she can't stand his own sound
Telling him none would want him.
It's morphed into chaos
Something that isn't love
Something a kin to madness
Something more brackish.
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