On the twenty-seventh day of National Poetry Month, I wrote a poem about my marriage. When I was getting married to my spouse in 2000, we talked about renewing vows. I wanted to renew every decade to give them a safe and easy “out” if they were ever tired of me. They wanted it to be forever… and maybe into the next life if possible.

Side note, I'm still trying to figure out how to haunt her to keep with her after I die.

We compromised on a fifty-year marriage. In 2050, we'll decide if we want to keep going or walk away. After fifty years, chances are, I'll stay, but the same thought remains: I don't want them to feel obligated to be married to me “because.”

This is the same philosophy I have with authors from Broken Typewriter Press. They can walk away if they feel the need. Yeah, I'd hope they pay my costs but right now, if it doesn't work, then don't continue it.

I almost ended this poem with the way Buckminster Fuller died, but didn't.

Fifty-Three Years

Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of looking into his face
And seeing the wrinkles spread across
And the eye glaze over with age.
So handsome.

Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of holding her tight
And seeing her breasts drop
And her hair go gray.
So beautiful.

Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of living together
And seeing our rings tarnish
And our children grow.
So wonderful.

Fifty-three years as of this midnight.
So many years of saying "I love you"
And repeating our vows
And remembering how to love.
So joyful.