Just to think how close we came to ill repute
by signing off our names, to hold heavy hands
in the long corridors of the magistrate’s court;
or to have the weaker of the two sold to the vicar,
and forced to live on just the scrawl of the one.

I might have come to think that this was ideal,
had its idea not barely missed my crotch with its
club-like foot; forcing me to hobble out my days
as half a person, with just one leg to stand on,
and the other’s foot fed firmly to the grave.

What would they have thought if we’d returned
locked at the finger? A love skilfully performed
on its way to the cemetery, because it is less
than a lifetime between the ribbon on the bonnet
And the hearse moving slowly and more punctual.

Stug Jordan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mr-mrs/