To Kevin on the Occasion of His Wedding

The Park Street Church’s steeple stares
at me through a library window. Its point

pierces the sky so the day can droop down
through a tiny tear and leak all over

my books. Between me and the needle
is a cemetery. So many cemeteries

out here. So many thin tombstones,
winged skulls winking back and forth

until the afternoon dies. It’s June and, Kevin,
you are getting married soon. I’m coming

alone, sharing a hotel room with Chris,
wishing Idaho was forever. I’ll rewrite

this note after breakfast the day before,
surrounded by the snug choke of our friends,

stories that don’t end, and outside a sun
that smells too sweet blushing into mountains.

The sky all kinds of never and your face
redder than it’s ever been. Please, don’t

throw this note away. I’m sorry the check
I’m writing is so small. I’m spinning

into a pleasant drunk already, several
months early. Clunky Boston barely exists

as I walk home. Light pollution red
sky breathing me in. Let’s stay here,

where you’re always about to get married
and the summer pretends it doesn’t know how to end.

By Bob Sykora