Friday, March 15, 2013


A bronze buck bounds after a bronze doe
outside the banquet hall of Deerfield Country Club
just south of the Pennsylvania border.
Through the glass walls can be spotted
the bride and groom, in the middle
of the sectional dance floor
undulating to the thumping club music. 
The old people huddle
around the tables in silence.
It's too noisy for conversation.
The final sparks of the sunset
are snuffed by the trees. The links grow dark. 
A possum shuffles across a sand trap.  
I sit alone beneath the glass chandeliers,
tossing back bourbon and leering
at the jiggling bridesmaids.
The deer couple remain frozen
mid-pursuit. He will never catch her.
The possum's eyes gleam
in the headlights of the hotel shuttle bus.
The driver drums his knuckles on the wheel,
reeking of weed. 
The music pounds, a heart beating
much too fast and too loud, 
pummeling our eardrums,
smothering all utterances, even
to have and to hold, 
even 'til death do us part.

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