The Bride and the Broomstick

"I think we've reached a threshold, Roger,"

In his arms she said.

The cabin was dark and the woods were deep

All around his wedding bed.

Outside the wind was picking up

All through the barren trees,

But there was not a sound, not a living thing around

As winter blew in off the sea.

She said, "Bear with me, dear, but it's chilly in here.

Can we build a fire, please?"

Out in the night Roger rambled for some sticks

To bring to his brand-new bride.

She nervously leafed through his Field and Stream

And waited back inside.

She wondered how she'd ended up here,

Holed up on the Oregon coast;

A Manhattan model with a promising career

That had just given up the ghost.

Roger returned a few branches to burn,

No more than ten or twelve at the most.

Fearing the inevitable she said,

"Is that all you could find?"

Reaching for the unreachable he said,

"Well, I could pour some wine."

Together they watched as the fire burned down

And he stared to feel the mood.

"Hey," she jumped up, "we'll roll these papers up,

And see if they'll burn too."

She threw them all in 'til the sparks once again

To flames in the furnace grew.

"But the hour is now to consummate our vows,"

Roger finally said to his bride.

She said, "I'm still too cold - it must be ten degrees below.

Is there no more wood inside?"

She reached all around and the first thing that she found

Was a broomstick broken off sharp.

She said, "Here, let's throw this on, the heat is almost gone."

And he grabbed her by the arm.

But the wine took its toll and he lost his control,

Fell with the point right beneath his heart.

Roger lay impaled on a broomstick handle,

Dead on a cabin floor.

His bride soaked the scene with a can of kerosene

Stashed in a kitchen drawer.

But how would you stand if fortune turned and ran,

How would you know before?

Who would arise from the corner of your eyes

And come to take the floor?

The bride and the broomstick through down a match

And flew out the back door.