I'm not sure I want to re-open this debate, but it obviously sunk in somehow
and this poem was written after I went to wedding a couple of weeks ago.
bw
Helen
Guests
We are the question mark at the edge of the photo
labelled friends of the groom, the ones who left the huddle
on the steps and hurried to the bar to drink too much, or else
too little, or citing pregnancy or diet not at all; in dresses too low
too short, too formal, the cheap last minute or the borrowed hat.
We are the this is Josh and this is
Josh's wife, the of course we've met before (or else some other
shortish plumpish blonde); the never-beens among the never-lefts
the hardly-come-backs, skewing our heels along to
how the place has changed, up and coming, the old haunts
given over to flowers and flavoured vodka. Our talk
is trammelled by geography: train track, junctions,
traffic jams, or else (too loud) the kids - the babysitter,
the impossibility of a decent school - or turn aside
before the question's asked. Ours are the faces not franked
by the groom's nose, the bride's chin, the smirk
that's triggered by a single word in lads who've shared
a bevvy or an over all those years ago. We're the ones
who will not dance, or dance too hard to tunes
that make the bridesmaids blush; who embrace the bride
too firmly (dislodging veil or strap) or tip
the corner of a smile, or say it all with measured fingers
on her arm; whose taxis come on time, or late
or not at all; who sleep uneasy, well, or more-or-less
indifferently in beds whose sheets are laundered
well before the noon.
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