Young love growing up fast.

Sitting on a wooden bench
Outside the entrance
Of a small country clinic,
I soak in the spring sun
As I watch the people
Come and go;
Some are in no hurry to get
Wherever they are going,
While others rush by,
Lost in their own world,
Staring intently at the phone
In their hands,
And blind to everything else.
As it is the lunch hour,
Many are accompanied
By like-dressed companions:
Professionals with professionals,
Old men and old women,
A set of identical twins,
Dressed identically, of course,
And determined to chart
Their own course,
To the harried dismay
Of their stressed out mom;
Yet my eyes are continually drawn
To the young couple
Who pass by
Holding hands.
With their free arms
Around each other's waist,
They are smiling eagerly
And happily chatting
With, perhaps,
The slightest apprehension
In their voices,
For she is obviously expecting,
More than half way there,
I surmise,
By the size of her belly
And the ungainly gait
Of her walk;
But there is a glow,
Seen, yet not seen,
About her,
And I am struck by the vision
Of her as a Madonna,
Gentle and maternal
In nature,
Sweet in spirit,
The perfect foil
For the serious,
Obviously protective,
Young man
At her side.
A mist fills my eyes
As they pause by their car;
Painted in rust
With black primer,
It is way more
Than a mere
Second hand ride,
Maybe it's a third,
Or even fourth,
No doubt held together
By prayers,
Bubble gum,
And baling wire,
Yet he helps her
Into the front seat
As if she were Cinderella
Going to the ball.
I wonder,
As I am sure many do,
Will their love last?
And as I watch him adjust
The seat belt carefully
About her,
She tenderly brushes
The hair from his cheek
And leans forward
To meet his kiss.
Yes, I decide,
As the car soon reverses
And they drive away
In a pale blue veil
Of smoke,
Yes, I think they will.