I decided to read some Newlove tonight because it was sitting on my desk, and I dedicate this poem to my friend Dave who will have to deal with people just like this on saturday. It seems appropriate.

The Admiral Hotel
John Newlove

Until I attended my friend's
wedding reception I was unaware
of the progress of barbarism.

Tense and uneasy guests
tried to avoid any reference
to sex, the wedding cake

was carefully plastered white,
the bachelors arriving in nervous homage
groaned for the longed-for punch,

female relations assured themselves
that the whisperes were friendly,
free from the desk-clerk's bawdy

insinuations and the standard
jokes. They moved stiffly,
congratulating each other

in soprano hysteria, one glove off
and one glove on, their long-
tendoned hands groped for shoulders

and squeezed the muscles
of each other's upper arms,
or the upper margin brachio-radialis.

Speeches were made concerning
culture ( we are all cultured)
and suitability, love

was also mentioned. The best man
looked madly about in terror
and wished for his bottle of rye

before reading telegrams
from the unpronouncable towns of Wales.
The groom became anxious for his sanity.

And I looked slyly about, glad
I had left my glasses home,
noting the general faith

and hope that everything
would be alright, if
not in this place

at least when adjustments
had been made, desperately
sneering and quickly becoming

one of them,
while at the other end
of the room the fat pohtographer

carefully recorded the objects
of all the ritual.