A man walks into a bar, but this is not a joke. I'm with him,
drunk, and we’ve come so he can buy me another, maybe to kiss me
or get me to bed. I’m in love, concentrating hard on what
he’s saying, so I don’t say it first, but he doesn’t say it either.
Marriage is a three ring circus: engagement ring, wedding ring, suffering.
He laughs and next asks if I’ve heard the one about
the priest who drinks his Guinness with the hand that holds
his rosary. When we leave, it's snowing, and we're the two
losers on the corner asking why our affair was doomed to be
short-lived. Not that either of us knows we're in it, even then.
-- Whittney Jones is completing her MFA at Murray State University. She lives in a small town in Illinois, where she works as a Project Next Generation mentor at a local library. She has work published or forthcoming in Revolution House, Zone 3, the Minnesota Review, and Parable Press.