Everything Yellow

His bride pulls down their driveway
greeting us after popping the trunk.
"Did he tell you?" she asks
as my friend loads arms with groceries.
I know what's coming next.
I'd been wondering when
their house alone
would not fill the equation.

"How far along?"
"Four months and counting."
"Do you know if...?"
"Not yet."
"Some people save the surprise."
"Some people are foolish."
"How would they buy things?"
"Everything yellow."
I let it soak in.
It seems to make sense.

My neighbor returns
the shopping bags gone
while the mother-to-be
ascends the front steps--
her body a vessel
transformed into glory
that seraphim even
would secretly envy.

"I wanted to wait
for an intimate time,"
he says
apologetically
with hangdog eyes
omniscient.

The cap'n of cop-outs and quinine
can't hide.
The walk home on sea legs:
as useless as landlines.