The Prom

What the bloody hell, you kindly ask?
Someone's off-the-wallflower suggestion
sure beats scrambling for another
post about eggs, sunny-side or poached.
A magical night? Sure, fine, whatever, been downhill
from there, chills, maybe the occasional thrill. I think.
O, dearest wife, I kid and a half,
actually two, one for me and one for you.
"Getting off track, marriage boy?"
Oh boy, and how. Where was I? Yeah, the prom.
Dancing with nearly two decades between,
her satin rosy number, like that shot above --
"a flimsy excuse to post some Sarah G."
Hey, it's not as if I'm David B.
"No doubt Mrs. Graves would agree."
Ahem, why reference a show
that wouldn't appear for six more years?
Un, vital part of our cohabitation routine
et deux, poetic license, ever hear of it?
I had a license and wasn't afraid to use it
on a tuxedo; sure fixed my t-shirted wagon.
A white one drove to pick her pink innuendo up.
Things were looking perky, some might even say
back past chez moi to party time, excellent.
Praise Hanz und Franz for obscured lighting,
my, the photographer was frightening,
the then-First Lady in black tie.
The food was alright, the music was worse:
ass factories manufacturing C&C,
Robert Van Winkle imploring us to stop,
collaborate -- listen, this ain't Vichy,
but my stomach'll collaborate with some vomiting --
"must've been that Jersey cheese."
Bad Medicine'll poison your guts every time.
No one likes the grime of Dead Skin Mask?
Such visceral romance is forever lost
as you empty, quotidian souls were.
At you, I scoff. The name's Randal,
Mr. Graves if you're nasty.
"WTF? Been smoking grass, inhaling glue, some gas?"
Cultural touchstones, dumbass.
The question of the post: did Randal dance,
slow? Sure, as slow as my clumsy feet'll go.
Since all night long our tongues were tied
over and around hitting for the cycle,
it's safe to say that she didn't mind.
Until we got ring around the finger
a year past. That post comes later -- six feet under.