Honeymoon Hotel

i haven't touched a drop of wine

since the last time

we were together.

the time before that was when we

were on the far west-coast, Seaside,

our wedding night,

and i nearly ordered an $80 bottle

of Rosé by mistake -

as we sat down to eat our evening

meal.

you should have seen your face . . .

like a high-voltage-electro-chemical

pulse running through your motor cortex,

like a synaptic mocospace-shocky-face

that struck my pupils

with a thousand 911 cries of

"what are you doing, are you crazy?!",

and i had to seclude my embarrassment

from the waiter,

by pretending to be just some

mad foreigner.

we were poor, but hid it well,

and i concealed myself in the triumph

that i was now your husband

and thought of the promises

to come during the 

honeymoon night,

 

 

a beautiful day, a mystic day,

a number 7,

and it sure as hell felt good calling you

 

 

"my wife".