Sunday Afternoon Singularity
Nearly every Sunday afternoon...
black suits, expensive dresses
and hired limousines,
ride confetti covered roads
cluttered with unfilled dreams.

A spectacle for a few friends
and a show for the family,
money is no obstacle here
on this magazine feature type occasion
which belies a coming fiscal strife
...memories becoming red digits,
becoming teary red eyes
and already rearing regrets.

Who caught the bouquet?
and who will remember
that expensive, illusive memory
does anyone really care that their
sacrificing solvency for nostalgia
on the leather-bound altar
of the family album of superstitious ceremony.

You won’t see me there
wearing a suit
because religion is an allergy
... to me, its silly.

No church needed here,
just another to embrace,
to look in the face
and speak my love
without divine apparel
or priestly prompting.

My feelings, not theirs
(if they’re ever found)
to control.

I’m free, no slave to dodgy dogma
or vicarious showy vices;
showbiz devices are unwanted.

I won’t have to check prices
too high and too low,
or put on a matrimonial show
to obscure the real reason
why we might gather here today