The Wedding Band

It’s faded now,

The indentation filled in.

You grew fat and unhappy

While the music played on,

Growing faint, diminuendo of the heart.

Clanging cymbal, you were: Own it.

And now this: the hairs on that finger stand up.

The sun has passed nearly 12 seasons over it,

Darkening the white strip of flesh.

We are all flesh, mortal in our actions.

You have caressed other women’s bodies

With that finger, tracing their silken secrets —

Bliss, finally, at this age,

Unfettered by the 0.25 troy ounce of

Alloyed gold that the symbol held.

Bought at a shopping mall and redeemed at one

At the height of the precious-metals bull market,

Everyone seeking ultimate security,

You plopped it down on a felt pad

In front of a buyer.

He examined it, weighed it, and sniffed:

“One hundred and eighty-five.”

"I’ll take it.”

Now, it’s held in a safe, or melted into an ingot,

Or refashioned into something new—
Glittering and cherished.

You'd like to imagine the latter.