The Sepulcher Shook

The weatherman says no rain this Spring morn
As relatives greet in delight.
All's ready inside, a welcome's born,
While they seat on the left and the right.

Tuxedoes pressed sharp within trim form
Their boutonnieres' scent in the air.
A shot of scotch to keep doubt warm
As jolly men joke with flair.

But up runs the gown before march starts.
Long train, low bodice and bone.
Her lips don't smile, her eyes throw darts
And her pace, I should have known.

Three words she roars denying pretense,
"You fucked her?" And all was still.
Her peacock boy half cries his defense
As diamond band's flung with ill will.

A rain of roses beat across his face
Petals flew, thorns ripped, drew blood…
He fell, pleading mercy, knocked over a vase.
It dropped on his head with a thud.

The Priest, saintly man, tried to intervene.
Unwise in storms of this kind.
Lace boot kicked his balls up into his spleen.
He folded quite graceful and whined.

But fury wasn't finished and shouted out loud,
"My boss! How could you, you ass?"
She stormed out the doors right past the crowd
And slammed them, shattering the glass.

Her father, in shock, turned right with a nod
And was heard by quite a few,
Addressing his wife sitting quiet as God,
"Um, doesn't she work for you?"