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 flambés, 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.

Shotgun.

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