On our drive to the courthouse we witnessed
an elderly man wobble on his old-fashioned bike
near the ditch, where weeds brushed against his sensible shoes.

While you applied the brakes for the stop sign
I stared mutely, hand outstretched as if to prevent the inevitability
of the old man’s fall:

a slow motion teetering, as if he’d suddenly forgotten
how to balance.
I held my breath, falling with him,
willing him to regain his balance or
at the very least to fall gracefully,
no bones broken
so that the day of my wedding
would not be ruined;

so that later I would see no symbolism
in an old man’s wobbling fall
on the day that I exchanged one name
for another.