Wedding Band

A used wedding band
in the glass case of a second hand store
begs the question:
What went wrong?

Was this a relationship that was doomed to fail,
ticking off the days from the honeymoon,
or maybe even before,
like the countdown of a rocket with wobbly fins
and no guidance control
and only the slightest hope
of the geeky-eyed scientists
who feign enthusiasm
while secretly hoping nobody gets killed?
At least nobody innocent.

Or did they just wake up one morning
and finally have the courage to say to each other:
I don’t know who the hell you are anymore.
When did the pod people sneak into our house
and switch you out for such a convincing a replica,
all the way down to how you clear your sinuses in the morning?
Yet I know, and you know,
that I’m on to you.
And we no longer have to pretend.

But there is a third choice.
Maybe the two of them lived together happily for 80 years,
and then they just died.
First one, and then the other.
Whoever went first deciding not to bury the ring.
I mean, why would you?
And then it becomes part of Grandma’s Things.
And then great-grandma’s things.
Until no one remembers whose things they were,
so we might as well sell them,
since it’s not really that nice of a ring anyway,
the filigree has worn away,
and the inscription has long since gone.