Bachelor Party
Among the mirrored, red-brick walls, a few
seasoned bachelors and a few seasoned grooms
elevate fine, expensive wine and toast
to your embarrassment. After some jokes,
a waitress appears, an ecdysiast
with stockinged thighs, a creamy white hourglass
who tolls for twenties, tens and fives. Before
too long, she’s stiffened several laps. Ignored
and glad, I chase my drifting thoughts back home
where Julie feeds our baby boy—the roads
between us paved with clubs, where strippers, gays
and salsa bands all announce their midnight rage.
Though sappy, yes, I wish my life for you:
a wife, a child, and diapers full of pooh.
MO: Writing from the River, 2009
