Thirty-eight Years Ago Tonight

By John I. Blair

Thirty eight years ago tonight
We learned to laugh at love together
In a cheap motel in western Kansas,
Just through a flimsy one-brick wall
From U.S. Highway 54.

That morning we’d been duly wed
In a catholic church in Wichita,
Perched precariously on our knees
An inch inside the altar rail –
Where infidels like me could be.

Friends and family watched behind us,
Dressed in their go-to-wedding best.
You walked the aisle with your proud papa,
Glowing like an anxious angel
Wearing a home-made wedding dress.

Some flowers, a ring, some prayers, a kiss,
Your father crying like a baby, mine
Smiling like he knew a joke.
Our car honked every time we braked.
I swore. I got it fixed. We left

And took a drizzly road to Dodge
Where, turned back from the Silver Saddle,
We checked into the next motel
And, laughing, got to know each other truly
In ways we’d only guessed entailed delight.

©2005 John I. Blair