The Bar at the Andover Inn
by william matthews

The bride, groom (my son), and their friends gathered
somewhere else to siphon the wedding’s last
drops from their tired elders. Over a glass
of chardonnay I ignored my tattered,
companionable glooms (this took some will:
I’ve ended three marriages by divorce
as a man shoots his broken-legged horse)
and wished my two sons and their families
something I couldn’t have, or keep, myself.
The rueful pluck we take with us to bars
or church, the morbid fellowship of woe –
I’ve had my fill of it. I wouldn’t mope
through my son’s happiness or further fear
my own. Well, what instead? Well, something else.