The Royal Wedding

Rachel came in a very unexpected way
her hair tied back with a big bow that
was never her style, so swell with those
shoes and the ring was something
she had sworn – no wear. Way up on a curve,
swerving, red top Mercedes soft top
dropped chassis. Purring between the lines,
slumming hot dog day, back in Margate
lavished at the Tate. Money laundered Mayfair
fetish flamb├ęs, night cap in dinner jacket
black tie. Opera in a Brut dress and a diamond
on one knee, jeez you have always looked
good Rach, but those oysters are way
slimy. Divorced is a thing and your nails,
I mean, vermillion red and one sparkled
and you thin as corn and chicken
soup. Trouble is you didn’t take over
the room, huddled there in a mouse
trap, or stretch out a cat purr like you
used to when the rum ran out. We had held
out for so much more.