You you
You you
in the back wearing black
at a wedding, which shouldn't work
but it's revealing, it's
revealing that I don't notice
the non-white, maybe it's because
I'm in line to the left of the bride
and groom, my sweat and thought
on the Frost I'm to read,
the Twain I've included
to speak to the assembly to this
riverboat's congregation, though the groom
and the bride aren't religious so
it's more like a group, I barely notice
you, you in the back wearing black
since in moments I must recite about roads less travelled
and quote about the brevity of life, which isn't
Frost, but Twain when he was sincere
when he was in love
my friend, the groom, is in love
my friend, the bride, is in love
but I'm not briefly in love with you until
until
after the banjo band plays, then I note
you with a mutual friend, I wonder
at your non-wedding ring
at your singleness, you, later
at the rail of the Mark Twain
alone with the river, it is chance, it's a chance
to take, that, in hindsight, was prophetic
and should have told me not to date
the woman who certainly didn't come with me
the woman who's feelings I'd break twice, the
woman who wasn't you, I should be grateful
that I don't believe in fate, I should
but I'm not
you
you said thank you after I said
you're beautiful
I didn't talk more I couldn't talk more I
had that commitment to myself
and to that other woman whose life
would soon melt because of me
and her, our choices
just like my choice to tell you you were beautiful
because it was true, because I needed to tell you
and was told, later, you needed to hear
it too.