The Wet Look

A boatload of Merchant Marines
returned with the tide late this morning.
Parents and lovers lined up for miles
with "Welcome Home" signs and broad sun umbrellas.
Cadets in crisp white descended the ramp
to greet sweaty loved ones they'd missed for six months.

My bird's eye view from the third storey stairwell
keyed in on a chiseled young man on his knee
with a black velvet box and a beauty before him.
My heart stopped to witness a moment unstolen.

Her wavy green sun dress met curled auburn hair
at a set of tanned shoulders of which he had dreamed
while floating abroad, embarking on life
which'd be dedicated to captains and seas.
Her hand touched her lips as he whispered the words
that only the worthy ever should hear.
The drone of the crowd and the tools on the job
drowned out the exchange of vows I hold dear.

A small hopeful corner inside of my chest
lunged to the edge to yell at her, "Yes!"
but I didn't have to succumb to that act.
The telltale embrace told me she'd agreed.
Victories happen on every square inch
of sidewalk and sod if you know how to look.
I felt my mouth widen, vicariously happy
though I'm sure that my eyes
matched the hue of her dress.

His sister came running, rounded the corner
and screamed when she saw the ring on her finger.
His mother strolled over to welcome a daughter
and sighed with relief while the boat emptied out.
There were nods of heads.
There were pairs of wet eyes.
Oh God, there were wet eyes all over the scene.

My partner approached with a hammer in hand.
It wasn't my turn.
I sank back to work.