JAMES HOCH

Morning After the Prom

There was scrapple in the air
wafting out of Dempsey’s Diner,
an uneasy quiet, part relief

part worry; even the crows
gossiping on the wires looked
fairly anxious, unnerved.

There was scrapple in the air.
There were corsages in the river
ebbing against the mill bridge,

a fabrication of things pale:
pink and white, ribboned in blue.
Perverted lotuses, soap opera

lilies, perfumed, starch-stiff
as shirt cuffs, and tied too
elaborately to break apart,

they floated and sank on
their own time. You can imagine
how the girls felt, slipping them

off their wrists, flinging
them into the water. You can
imagine their wrists, months

working a string of shit jobs
for a limo, a suite at The Oasis,
corsages in Kenmac’s window,

and that moment, rehearsed
so well, even the music, the slow
grind of a heavy metal ballad,

how could the boys not
tremble a little, holding out
the flowers, so much going

away, so much coming on,
something they could talk about
the rest of their lives.  

(reprinted from Micreants, Norton 2007)