Two cowboys with tight black jeans
and shirts so white they shone in the dim evening light
stood with their backs to me - in front of Rosalinda's bed.
"She's pretty isn't she?" one of the nurses said,
and I nodded my head.
Meanwhile, Margaret sat erect like a fragile baby bird
while her daughter, Juanita,
fed her black bean soup from a metal thermos.
I fell asleep and dreamed that
white trucks pulled in and out of the cul-de-sac, and
I wrote to Las Vegas for information on wedding chapels.
The owner and his wife smiled at me
when I stepped out of the hot sun - into the mail room
on the day that the information came.
When I woke up, Joseph's words stuck out on my screen:
"I won't do it without a marching band going right up the aisle
playing All You Need is Love," he said.