John Grey
Another wedding.
Some twig on the far branch
of the family tree.
The bride is dressed
in white, her face half-hidden
by veils of lace.
If I remember her at all.
it’s as a spoiled brat
who broke a favorite toy
of mine when I was seven.
Some of the aunts I know.
few of the uncles
I don’t want to know.
They’ll corner me
with tobacco breath
and drill me on what
I’m doing with my life.
My face defaults into a smile.
You never know when
the camera will flash.
Don’t want a a dour expression
ruining the couple’s
expensive wedding album.
Outside, it’s beginning to rain.
I do my best not to
take it as a sign
but I’ve always been
a pessimist when it comes
to these things lasting.
Guys hang out at the bar,
toast the lightning.
The couple kiss
to the rattle of thunder.
The company laughs
as if it was the
smack of lips
and not the clash of clouds
that made the noise.
The storm’s so loud
but the band plays anyhow.
People dance more
to the weather
than the music.
I stand by the window,
staring out at lost souls
rushing up and down
the rain-splattered sidewalk.
There’s a marriage celebration
behind me.
And the fate of so many
down below.