Wedding Cake

A new bride at twenty four, we move into a place 

on the other side of the tracks,
where Venetian blinds cling to the windows.

I replace them with curtains from Sears, 

both blue and flowery, but too short for the windows,
like kids in hand-me-downs.

Three months go by. Ivan's asked to be
best man at his friend's wedding in St. Louis.
Then suddenly, his grandfather, a Pittsburgh
icon, dies and now Ivan has to choose:
funeral or wedding.

What goes 'round, comes 'round, 
Ivan makes his choice, and I acquiesce,
We leave the smokey city on the windy Thursday of Thanksgiving.
I'm glad for a break from my screeching seventh graders.

I take along my sewing basket with patterns and pins.
Howard and Ellen welcome us into their drafty flat. 

Saturday, we'll all be dancing at the wedding.

That night, trying to sleep, I hear a tip-tapping,
the undeniable tapping of roaches
on tented tin foil covering the turkey,
tip-tapping their own wedding dance.

Once home, two roaches boldly waltz
from my basket. They colonize.
The red-headed landlady refuses to help.

I'm cleaning on a Sunday afternoon.
Ivan once again off with Bill to chase trains, 

to shoot them comin' round a bend.

We'd stashed the plastic bride 'n groom from off
the wedding cake high up on a kitchen shelf.
As I swipe my rag, half dozen roaches scatter
north, south, east 'n west from the folds of her gown.

Stayed in that marriage nineteen long years.
Whys and wherefores, don't ask.