My late wife

by Bill Mullis

In the middle of July, 

The air was hot and humid.

The bride was nowhere to be found;

The groom was getting groomèd.

His beard was not as gray back then,

His aches were less insistent;

His hair, though less than years before,

Was basically existent.

He dressed himself as best he could 

In what garb he remembered.

His tie he borrowed from a future 

Former family member.

And as he dressed he watched the road - 

For time was running out - 

For signs of his belovèd, though 

In truth there was no doubt.

Well, maybe just a little one:

There's always just a chance

That her intelligence will trump

The blindness of romance.

And so he tied his borrowed tie,

And wiped his sweating brows,

And stole a glance or two or three

While practicing his vows.

But timepieces were being checked,

Though surreptitiously,

By people wishing she’d arrive

More expeditiously.

“Has the woman changed her mind?”

The bystanders all wondered.

“Oh, surely not,” was the reply,

“that’s one chance in a hunderd.”

And then - at last! - the glint of sun 

Shone from the auto glass.

In his relief he sat down hard

Upon his... fundament.

For in the middle of July

The air was hot and sticky.

But his relief was mighty, ’cause

His bride was not that picky.

Bill Mullis often thinks in bad verse in the Upstate region of South Carolina, where he continues to live in marital bliss with Amy, and hardly ever has to wait for her for very long.