And it’s done,
deep breaths,
sweaty palms,
the doorbell rung,
soft mints cooling on his tongue,
bouquet, peaches, crimson grapes,
praline chocolates in rounded shapes,
and inside, inside,
his heart tolls behind the pinstripes,
his mind brawls beneath the bowler,
churning out the fears and doubt.
What will she say?
How will she be?
And suddenly the world splits,
halves the North Atlantic sea,
cracks part the cobble street,
inching fast toward his feet,
and please, oh please,
don’t divide this old man,
heart of glass,
mouth of sand,
don’t divide this old man
from his love at number thirteen.