Street Union

I heard you before I saw the look on your faces, cowbells jingling, or maybe it was the clang of a pot, lid on a tin can.

These two just got married, a lone friend Harold your union, an excited, crackling voice, a little blurred, leading the way.

Come see her toss the bouquet City Hall. She's throwing it now.

I look up from my phone, lost in a podcast, snapping random selfies with art and concrete, weaving through a sweating, swearing inner city walk home.

They march ahead a parade of three. No wedding party, no music, a plastic white bouquet, street life and angels, needles and pigeons, the only guests,

yet the trio exudes a triumphant vibe. Rolling suitcase, no frills, shopping bag, rugby pants, flip flop slides, tank top, a rainbow of beige and black.

Wait, are those lime green socks?

The Dollar Store bouquet, a makeshift veil.

I skip a few steps and rush to catch up. My instinct is to call after them. Hey, wait up. Congratulations.

I long to engage in the invitation to follow and see maybe offer lunch money.

Time, celebration, something.

If I had a band, I'd show up to play. They stop in front of a stage, empty set for street performers. What can I give or say or do nothing.

It's their story, thoughts, race, body aches, fumbles

and sores. Yeah, yeah, there's something just witness.

It comes to me in an instant, a photo true to me, the tiniest thing I can offer, mark their moment.

That's what I can do. I'll remember you your magic in my awkward hesitance to offer to presume voyeur overstep, the thumbs up you gave me that afternoon in the almost perfect September light.

You threw your heads back and generously spelled your expression, your joy.

That moment a snapshot and time I ask their names, mark the date on my heart, text them the photo.

Remember this on this street, on this day, they found love and what's bigger than that you.