(1934 American black & white romantic comedy by Frank Capra)
which was really a week
of falling asleep
on a stranger’s lapel,
and the white satin
that went on forever
like a cigarette
that never sets fire
to the hay we sleep in.
It happened one night like
drunk reporters talking
into two phones at once,
like borrowed pajamas
and a donut dunked in coffee
early morning at the auto camp.
It happened one night but was never grim,
not the man tied to the tree
nor the man running in fear for his children
nor the recommended daily
sock to the mouth for her.
We barely felt it.
The autogyro was always ridiculous.
We run away
with the runaway bride
and we couldn’t be happier
from Poetry Northwest 10.1 Summer & Fall 2015More by Sierra Nelson from the library
Copyright © Sierra Nelson
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.