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.