The gunman from Morocco
zombie-walked, his shirttail hanging.
He hadn’t received an invitation.
After he snatched the bridesmaid’s purse
at her best friend’s wedding, I caught him
on the monitor and chased him
to the hayfield out back, where
we indulged in a fistfight I won.
At the reception, spectators agreed I had.
I would have paid to see that, Champ.
Congrats. The groom sighed, You were
an animal, but I forgive you. The cops
cuffed the goon, who threatened to sue.
The new couple interrupted because
of their schedule, We want to spend
the money in these envelopes, the bride said.
Let’s hope that’s not our ruin, but after
today we’ll survive anything: affairs,
my pregnancy, and Jim chewin’ tobacco.
At that everybody applauded and cheered.
David Spicer has had poems in Mad Swirl, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, The American Poetry Review, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and elsewhere, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.