Wedding Photograph
by Richard Jordan

    The photographer, still woozy
    from Woodstock, attempts to line them up
    in front of the fountain-a statue
    of some saint or other, with holy water spewing
    haphazardly from various misplaced apertures.
    The best man is flying low
    and reeking of methadone, while the usher
    sports a residual bulge from the bachelor
    party at the Sunken Debutante Hideaway.

    Father Donahue, who was known back in high school
    as The Bull for his exploits on the gridiron,
    and because he was the first linebacker to score
    with the captain of the cheerleading squad,
    who has grown up to be the Matron of Honor,
    is trying his damnedest to enter the picture,
    as the ring bearer is sprawled out on the grass,
    searching desperately for a nickel he lost
    under the flower girl's gown.

    By this time, the groom has guzzled so many
    mudslides at the open bar that his Adam's Apple
    is rubbing raw against his bowtie,
    and the bride is anxious for the photo to be snapped
    before the lacings of her brassiere bust
    open from three helpings of prime rib
    and garlic mashed potatoes, after four solid months
    of nothing but tofu and radishes. Meanwhile,
    the bridesmaid is conspicuously absent,
    having last been spotted doing the Hokey Pokey
    with the accordian player.

    Two years from the day,
    when the bride settles down
    with a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey
    in her one bedroom efficiency in Hoboken,
    she'll scrape the fungus and earwigs
    from the photo album, reminisce about Barbados,
    mopeds and free Guiness, and wonder
    what ever became of the photographer.

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