Three Hours Into The Reception
This mass of platinum hair, at navel level,
Bobbing up and down, is very nice for me.
The setting's posh, a tiled bathroom,
Somewhere on the second floor above
The wedding celebration. Still, if I
Was fit to walk, I'd tell your father
That his second wife may not be as
He thought. A beauty and beautician,
Yes, but seemingly reluctant to be
His alone, and you, now having seen
Us here, are apt to find me also suspect.
Will you go, in tears and anger, down
The stairs to Daddy as I do my best
To formulate a plan of action after
Having had my way with her, the
Bride, who's retching now, somewhere
Beneath that mass of platinum hair?
poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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