The Divorce
He had a few drinks the night before,
enough to mistake the waiter for a door.
T'would help him remember
he thought to himself,
the fun to be had in the coming of day.
He'd married a Madame
with her perfumes and pearls,
a painted smile
as he watched her walk
with first one foot
and then the next,
stepping in time to his funeral march.
They'd promised forever in those very same rooms,
with their sad yellow curtains and broken blooms.
This could have been a wedding
there were vows to make-
I, Harold, un-take June as my wife,
for better, not worse,
for richer not poorer.
With his eyes on her profile
he thought to himself
that she'd never looked more radiant
than she did today.
A few odd words and then it was done,
all i's were dotted
and the t's crossed
to pronounce them completely
un-manned and de-wifed.
“Fancy some lunch at The Ritz, my love?"
“Alright then, darling. You drive.”
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