The Open Bar

Table twelve is where they put the regrets,

the second cousins and the gambling debts.

I’m watching the father check his gold watch,

smelling of expensive cigars and cheap scotch.

He’s timing the waltz like a shift on the clock,

while the bride circles round in her lace and her frock.

A server is scraping a plate near my ear,

clearing the fat from a dead-expensive steer.

On a rental lapel, a carnation goes gray,

wilting under the heat of a long, gilded day.