Till Death Do Us Part

I remember the cloth diapers washed in the tub
and walking two miles to the store,
the run-down efficiency apartment,
falling over the bed coming in the door;
Hamburger Helper for dinner every night,
the little window with the welded iron bars
where I would sit in the sun and think of better
places where the drivers of those cars
were going across the sunshined asphalt,
not even looking over as they drove by;
storms don't catch the eye very often
when there is no rainbowed reason why.

I remember my wardrobe a small suitcase held,
the 13-inch black and white TV,
flip-flops from the Greyhound bus
that transported me to free
and we would make it, just you and me...

it's what I told myself through the kicking,
screaming, punching, blood-stained sheets
what I'd say at the medicine cabinet, though
the soul dies off, the heart still beats.

For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,
for better or worse, I said we'd make it,
we were poor, and sick, and things grew worse,
but I vowed to God that we could take it.

People tell me now that I should look back and laugh
and feel good about how far I've come since then-
and the only thing I can laugh and feel good for
is that I'll never love like that again.