& marry you at the checkout counter
catching muses & trading glances
browsing dusty racks. You wander
down the aisle labeled “country” & I flip
through “classic rock” & when our fingers
touch at “new wave” … we call it love.
Best man Sam Cooke shines down hummin’
“Havin’ a Party” in harmony. Margo Price
your maid of honor warns that’s how rumors
get started. I grab your handful of albums
holy matrimony
blending our records like blood arm-in-arm
vowing “I do” over the non-scratched used
vinyl from the $8 or less bin like promises
handed over in sweaty rolled up dollar bills
& we catch bouquets like dusky diamonds
as dry rice flies from the clouds at closing.
I kiss my bride tuck our vinyl
under my arms & trace the outline
of your finger with a Sharpie
like a ring forever encircling us after I
marry you at the checkout counter.
Mick Haupt