Overtures are made. Music happens.
Blame Canadian Mist and Mountain Dew.
Blame the mix not the brew.
I sat there stretched out in cummerbund,
the circular table overflowed,
sweet buns, wedding cake, something thrown,
bridesmaids dancing in high heels and bright dresses.
Groomsmen spinning girls,
girls grinding with their hips,
they bite their lower lips,
twirl their plaited tresses.
I look at this army,
look at this army,
I think of the orphans
never and never.
If I really possessed free will,
I would choose to be God
just like everybody else
would choose to be God
if everybody had free will.
This is not a check,
is a non-negotiable check.
PARTY TO THE FIRST PART
Tuxedoed castellan consuming his concoction,
across from him children caper at the dance.
The cloying matriarch, the aging dowager,
swirls her wine in a glass.
He ordered the white.
She ordered the rose and the red.
His wine was served from a decanter,
hers from two different fisted corks.
They’ve been paired since that first tasting
when sparklers flashed past them
on the walk to the Sarasota city pier.
She took her heels off on the beach.
He lost a cufflink.
They spoke about moscatel,
how the grapes are redolent.
He promised to take her to Lisbon,
the lie slipping by his teeth on the sixth sip.
She regretted choosing the double hook bra
and covered her curved c-section scar.
On the walk back to the hotel
a disheveled bum holding a welcome sign
asked for two million dollars
and this made them both laugh.
PARTY TO THE SECOND PART
You have been examined today for physical injuries.
Because of the emotional upset that happens during a physical assault,
you may not be aware of areas of pain or injury until tomorrow.
Shock, embarrassment, fear,
depression, blame, guilt,
shame or anger
are all very common and normal feelings.
You may not be able to think clearly
and you may have strong emotions
about what happened to you.
This is normal.
Crisis intervention and supportive counseling can help.
Many states require your doctor to notify law enforcement agencies
as part of administering treatment on a victim of a violent crime.
The blue dashboard illuminates his apatheia,
angled passing streetlamps shine on anomie,
her upturned face debrided, her mind at large,
her car seat reclines all the way back,
her legs curl underneath her, sweet
placid car marais, clumped mascara sways
a vision cloud malaise of drunken ataraxia.
And when they stepped out on their gravel lichyard,
he is now missing both cufflinks.
She carries her high heels. She thinks she walks
on crushed shells near the coquina rocks
that protrude askew at odd angles
all over the Sarasota keys.