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MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

Gathering Pre-Limo

Morgan Driscoll

The pink shirts fit as I do not.
Trouser creases,
plumb lines in a renovated kitchen.
My denim sags at the knees.
The patio is shaded by soft spring leaves,
as we move to move outside, shall we?

I try and make a joke about how long it takes to mow.

The boys are in their tuxedos,
holding corsages,
that are snapped,
in their transparent plastic case.
They are awkward, but sincerely joking
in their eager bowties.

I am out of place. Do any know I know?

The girls arrive in gowns too svelte
for any but a fashion model
or well to do sixteen year old.
They take and give the social cues I didnít have at sixteen,
and sometimes lack at sixty,
but falter at the pinning of the boutonniere.

Plus cíest la mÍme chose.

My son is thin and tall. So tall.
He dances through the hormones and the facile cheer
just like he belongs here.
The hostess, tucked and trim, smiles, as if I were meant to be.
She offers me a Chardonnay.
The Husbands murmur Real Estate.

I offer up apologies and go.