Cars block out any parking in the cul-de-sac, rust on hinges
and bumpers as if they were meant to wait. Inside
a garage the couple says their vows under an arch
that touches the ceiling. Family, sons and daughters
from both sides, blow bubbles which burst
on a white dress. In the backyard, they celebrate
by singing along with the dogs howling
in the streets. The next day their garbage bin
is full—paper plates with dabs of wedding
cake and a tablecloth that they’ll never reuse.
Throwing out a bouquet of wilted roses, she finally
gets to the storage her and her husband were supposed
to sort through. They stayed inside for years, but
the water still collected from afterthought rains: old
photographs stuck together as though people could hold each other
in different times, a bassinet that was supposed to be a legacy,
old tax forms married together with dirt and earthworms
who grew fat just by wriggling around the old text.
She takes box after box, unable to looking inside them,
and throws them into the bin.