come in, i’m open

poem

me the night before my wedding

he said loving me was like
loving that fancy French café next door
the one with so much grey scaffolding
it needed one of those
“please pardon our appearance while we renovate”
or
“come in, we’re open!” signs

“you mean the little spot on Thompson?”
I laughed
“yeah, Fellini. that’s it”
“but they make a really great cappuccino.”
“well, hardly anyone but you would know.
 it’s impossible to get in.”

the next day
I walked to Home Depot
bought me one of those signs
and threw it around my neck
so he’d know
despite the scaffolding
and my crumbling facade
I was still open too