Walking past the chapel,
our trip to the park over, we encounter
Cocktail napkins litter the ground like
cherry blossom petals.
I hold your hand and squeeze
your thumb. Bride is full and beaming.
She calls out to guests, bouquet
in clutched fist.
What if I were to catch
that mass of flowers, buds of girly pink,
like the forgotten napkins?
Would it be a waste of a good toss?
We could fly to San Francisco,
both don white dresses, or you, a tux
with your favorite purple tie.
Our friend Roberto would cater
the reception, make those little cakes
you love, each with an exotic fruit placed
on top. But we'd come back
unacknowledged and void.
We watch the bride and groom, holding hands,
just like us. They are in love, just like us.
We continue our way home.