Don’t forget to call 811

before you bury your divorce.

It takes five minutes –

unlike the four hours

you stood

to kiss her in front of Elvis.

I still remember that day:

We fluttered to a city

known for quick things,

our compliance short strings.

Panhandlers heckled us for currency –

they accepted sweat or time.

It was all the same to us.

The boulevard of mud

lined with vomit and crud,

should’ve been reason enough

for us to depart.

Midday weddings are overrated –

why parade like a Parotia

in proper places?

A church and a saloon

with thirty plastic rose bouquets

are the same

when pink light hits the frame.

We thought truth was buried in the dark

and garish lights – our sun and altar

There I swayed like a half-starved sailor

calling you my love and savior.

I swear we were the golden ones

in that line of lovestruck chumps.