The orange bride, enamelled
(and apparently enamoured)
with her multi-fathered children
crowding round her feet, wears white.
And although this is the first time
she has worn that special gown,
at eight hundred pounds,
she may chose to reuse,
in a year or two,
for next time round.
She needs her camouflage monogamy,
a façade of temporary honesty,
all reflected in the sparkle of her
hard and gleaming smile;
for her lashes aren’t her own,
nor her nails or her tan,
they’re all applied externally
like armour for a fight.
I wonder if this union will
even last the night.
