The Buffet

The bass from the ballroom is shaking the drywall.

I’m standing by the bins of silver and glass

where the waiters are stacking the plates from the hall,

watching the hours of the evening pass.

The groom’s father fumbles a cufflink of gold,

leaning his back on the service lift door.

He looks like a man who is suddenly old,

dropping his pride on the linoleum floor.

In the bottom of a flute, a petal has curled,

pink and forgotten and soaked in the wine.

It’s a small, soggy end to a beautiful world,

and I’m glad that the ritual isn’t mine.