Fashionably high-waisted,
the messy-haired
palm trees
sway like the drunk girls
who planned the bachelorette,
ate & danced & drank
& survived the dancers,
the Uber driver & bartenders
& now are trying to decide
whether to try the hotel bar.
This bottle of Chablis
is not bad, nearly gone.
The bride was sent to bed hours ago.
The one who could lose
a few pounds is in charge.
She is both a fast friend
to all the girls & also
terrific in bed.
Hence, single.
The others are playing out
the string, one with a diamond,
one with a club.
Never cut the deck twice.
Jen, she says, we should karaoke.
Jeez, Carol, not tonight. I can’t sing anyway.
I can. I love to do Pharrel Williams.
I’d love to do John Legend.
Sure you would, but he’s already mine.
Mine and Chrissy’s.
Someone bring a bottle.
Someone find an opener.
Palm trees bow, would like to
dip their sandals into the pool
when nobody is watching.

There is a gnawing
in my belly which might
be impatience, or worry,
or a hole where alcohol
should go.
It’s a restless
ugly that comes with
being male,
American &
in the subset of stupid,
poor & ill-informed.
Listen to those big words, Spanky.
Take a deep breath &
let the belly fall out.
Wish you can take up your worries
like a chunk of hard stone
& CHUCK IT
into the river,
down the road,
or at someone.
Throw it right-handed:
it’s up to you.