at my niece's wedding. Most of it is true.
In a cheap motel outside of Bakersfield
Sandy stared at her reflection.
She wiped her cheeks where her tears
left streaks in her make-up.
Dennis looked at her and scowled,
“You can’t turn back the hands of time…
so deal with it… You’re fifty-five.”
Choking on the smoke from his cigarette
she grabbed her green sweater
and walked out the door.
In the lobby the TV
buzzed and rattled with the news.
Men in their cowboy boots,
women in their rhinestone skirts,
stood with their heads and shoulders touching.
Sandy could hear them sobbing.
“Are you crying for me?” she asked.
“Buck Owens died today,” she heard someone say.
“I guess there won’t be a celebration then,” she sighed.
Sandy pulled her sweater tighter around
her shoulders turned and walked away
the day Buck Owens died
and she turned fifty-five.
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