FIASCO IN WHITE

Biting,
bottom lip blistered
the repose of a tiara cocked
just so…
or maybe a little to the left,
as the happy gaggle
maids a’plenty,
preen and tease their Sunday best
made garish and contrite -
abysmal mediocrity
mired in the spectacle of it all.

“It’s my day.”
Whispering nonchalance,
forgetting the man’s part,
wax plugging reason,
laid deaf on the only appendage
untouched –
virgin ears.

Acutely tuned in
to the one that tells –
of a night...
indiscretion penetrating,
stretching the blissful hush
to a snap of gartered playtime.

“Be quiet!” she barks,
grand dame guillaume
rearing its foreshadowing head
through the paper thin crepe of veil,
“I’ve forgiven him that!”

At least
…until the honeymoon wears off.

Papa always said,
'women make the most peculiar brides',

…and now I remember why.

@ Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).