Table 14

The champagne’s warm and tastes of tin.

I watch the evening wearing thin.

At Table 14, by the door,

I watch the groom’s dad hit the floor.

He’s trying with a heavy heel

to fix a board and make it feel

as solid as a father should,

stamping down on splintered wood.

I took the flower from my coat

and felt the dry lump in my throat.

I dropped the wilted, pink carnation

into a glass of flat sensation.