Cruising the Back Nine

Cruising the back nine

Two white sashes,
four glasses of wine,
one stolen golf cart,
six lives screaming: “Hooray for freedom, for independence,
for the buzz of loneliness and champagne.”
You do the math.

The doors at First Lutheran Church flew open,
“Ave Maria” fell silent, and there
A little girl silhouetted in sunlight.
Forecasters said rain, but Ann said no.
I’m getting married today,
No rain, no clouds.
All teeth, all smile.
Shoulders back and silk-smooth,
Her dress trailed two feet behind,
a nod to oil-paint smudges and Impressionism.

Someone has the keys,
Left over from a man-and-wife joyride,
But I don’t recall who asks me along.
Prairie night clear, stars like shotgun pocks in a speed sign on Highway 10,
and us dying to find life in more than a limbo pole.
Old high school hijinx rediscovered in the emptiness unique to wedding guests.
I squat in a basket meant for clubs,
A groomsman perches on the hood,
Nick clings to the awning, defying physics.
Crown in the belly, speed on the brain.
Ditches, shadows, laughter race past our eyes.
“Faster!” “Bridge!” “We’re tipping!”
Scent of sweat and conditioner,
Sashes flapping.

Ann pulled Todd’s handkerchief from his breast pocket,
A symbol of beauty, triumph, finality.
The pastor—a godfather—choked up.
Guests smiled,
The bride shimmied.

Our ride ends with stern words from country club personnel,
But whatever.
It’s a wedding,
We’re drunk,
We’re wild,
That’s more excuse than we might have had as teens.
Back to wine, limbo poles and conga lines,
All that anticipated joy.
We’ve pulled life from this night, left ourselves on the back nine.
One white sash
And a tassel from my shoe.

August 15, 2009