Morning After the Prom

There was scrapple in the air

wafting out of Dempsey’s Diner,

an uneasy quiet, part relief

part worry; even the crows

gossiping on the wires looked

fairly anxious, unnerved.

There was scrapple in the air.

There were corsages in the river

ebbing against the mill bridge,

a fabrication of things pale:

pink and white, ribboned in blue.

Perverted lotuses, soap opera

lilies, perfumed, starch-stiff

as shirt cuffs, and tied too

elaborately to break apart,

they floated and sank on

their own time. You can imagine

how the girls felt, slipping them

off their wrists, flinging

them into the water. You can

imagine their wrists, months

working a string of shit jobs

for a limo, a suite at The Oasis,

corsages in Kenmac’s window,

and that moment, rehearsed

so well, even the music, the slow

grind of a heavy metal ballad,

how could the boys not

tremble a little, holding out

the flowers, so much going

away, so much coming on,

something they could talk about

the rest of their lives.

(reprinted from Micreants, Norton 2007)