If Regina played “Us” at a concert I was attending,
I would marry a girl in the audience before the final
chorus. I would chew an awkward oval from the
leather of my shoe and place it around her finger.
I would call her father with her phone over the noise
of the kick drum and crowd to shout, “SIR, I’M
MARRYING YOUR DAUGHTER, I DON’T HAVE
MUCH MONEY, AND HAVE FEW PLANS FOR
THE FUTURE, NOT TO MENTION MY MOUNTING
PILE OF COLLEGE DEBT I’M NOT SURE I CAN
AFFORD, BUT REGINA’S PLAYING “US” AND
SHE’S INTO IT, SO I THINK I’M INTO HER TOO.
MY FOOT’S COLD. OH, SHIT, HERE COMES
THE CHORUS AGAIN. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
He’d only hear the static of paper bags and wasp nests.
I’d sing to the girl about sculpture and the art they’ll
carve of our likeness atop mountains. She’ll sing it
too and we’ll think it’s a sign we were meant to be,
and we’ll think it’s really weird that everyone else knows
about our plans and feels the need to recite them too.
Then we’ll realize what ocean we’re in, sweaty and stupid,
straining the muscles in our throats we didn’t know we had.
Regina will smile between falsettos. We’ll have fun.
Created: Apr 25, 2012blbest Document Media