The foam in the centerpiece is starting to sour

The foam in the centerpiece is starting to sour,

turning that chemical green. Table twelve.

I’m nursing a gin and watching the hour

while the maid of honor tries to delve

into a stanza about a soulmate’s light.

The groom’s mother looks at her wrist,

a sharp flick of gold in the dimming light,

checking if the schedule’s been missed.

I’m looking at my fork. The tines are bare,

the fake gold flaking off to show the tin.

We’re all just renting the clothes and the air,

waiting for the real night to begin.