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To a Wedding

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The city humid, the church rusty and Baroque, and the directions appalling,
the Miami sky turned gray as a blanket, and soon tropical rain was falling;
the priest repeatedly invoked the Beast in View, as if he were stalling;
and in the back a few ushers whipped out their cell phones and started calling.
What of the palm scrub, through which mildewed creatures came crawling,
or the two cousins from Chicago, who at the reception couldn't stop brawling?
All weddings are madness, and except for the sherbet-hued bridesmaids not even a little enthralling.
But the stooped and aged, what in their moth-eaten hours were they recalling?
Some first nervous kiss, perhaps, the razor of a touch, and all that "Baby Doll"-ing;
then the mortgage in Opa-Locka, nine months of waiting, and half a life of squalling.

Source: Poetry (November 2008)

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This poem originally appeared in the November 2008 issue of Poetry magazine

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To a Wedding

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