Here at Zoe's Wedding Bash
  Tyler Gabrysh

Drunk on Artois and grinning
with perfumed arm limp over me,
you're on about times past –

the lightless forest beyond the river,
that dead vagrant submerged one year.

We're siblings, just kin,
and these jabbered memories
include not me, but a friend.

Any friend. I can't recall them all,
now muscling into this tired roast beef.

Inevitably the stale tunes begin
heaving onto the dance floor,
coaxing another headlock of remembrance.

You slur something about chalk motifs
on those ancient trees. Such impenetrability.

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