Microphone Fever

The silver neck of the stand wouldn't hold.

It kept sinking toward the scuffed wooden floor

while I sang the wrong verse, brave and bold,

about a woman who didn't live there anymore.

I saw the groom’s aunt wince at the pitch

and the videographer look down at his shoes.

There was a hitch in my throat, a terrible twitch,

like a radio station I was fated to lose.

Today, a man tripped on a carton of milk

and straightened his tie with a dignified stare.

His pride was a remnant of moth-eaten silk,

and for a second, I loved every person in there.