written By
At which I crash through
a champagne fountain
on my way to the dance floor
to pry you from the oiled bronze
arms of Mr. Right.
Dragged through a crowd
of laughing cool kids,
unbelievably attractive and rich,
then pitched off the front porch
into a big mud puddle by two hired goons.
Call them Truth and Beauty.
Call them Karmic Justice and Just Desserts.
My face is bleeding.
My suit is ruined.
My boutonnière is crushed.
But it must be our song
has just come on the record player,
the way you gyrate wildly
in the picture window, some divinity
or other working your hips.
