Bouquet
We were caught up
in the cascades
of white lilies,
pink carnations,
and the occasional
red dripping rose,
the floral disguises
of this secretly
sordid affair.
The bride’s mother
always cries at weddings
but tonight
she is as stoic
as a funeral procession.
The death of the bride
with the ring of containment
glittering from her finger
as she kisses her
newlywed beast
is rejoiced over
by the shrieking
peach clad bridesmaid
who catches
her last petal
of youth and beauty
with greedy hands.
Odd half-smiles
and congratulations
are thrown about
like farewell rice.
They drive off
in a rusted beater,
tin can cacophony
paving the way
to a shelved life.
Mistakes.
Wagers.
The sun sets
on us stragglers,
shaking our heads
over obvious
bad choices,
vowing ourselves
to never indulge
in such whims.
Thistle Thoughts 