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A novel in verse … and the writing thereof
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Monologue

Next week? You can’t get married

     next week. I can’t possibly

     be ready by next week. And your aunt Thelma—

it takes time to travel down

               from Oregon. If Shirley’s

here and Thelma

feels left out, I’ll never

               hear the end of it.

Now, I know young people get impatient,

but surely you can wait

a little longer? And don’t talk to me

about his family! What about yours?

They’ve managed without him

     this long, they can manage

               a little longer. How much

can there be to do

     on a ranch in October

               anyway?

What do you mean, No, mother? What?

We can’t do that. Weren’t you listening? If

     we don’t invite Thelma—

Oh. Oh. Not Shirley either. I see. So we’ll

offend both of them, instead of just one.

     Or, what? None of them? But—

What sort of wedding will this be then?

     A small one. That’s very funny.

So you— Not get married here at all? Then—

     San Francisco?

     Well, I suppose your father and I could—

You don’t want us to come. You don’t want

your own father and

your own mother

               to be present at

     your wedding.

I’m sorry, but

     I do not understand

               what I have done

to deserve this.

Oh, the reception. Here at the house. I see.

     Small. Yes, I’m taking notes. I’d better;

     the shock would drive all this

               right out of my mind.

Oh.

Yes.

Well, that’s different.

Yes, I begin

to see: a small, intimate gathering at

the bride’s home.

Yes, maybe that’s more appropriate

     so soon after the war. But

how about roses,

     yellow roses everywhere?

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