Plan B

The roses. The ribbons. The baby’s breath intertwined.
The platters. The goblets. The special bottle of wine.
The tablecloth. The napkins. The inked and handwritten cards.
All strewn about the floor amidst clumps of broken shards.

The work. The deception. The games our friends did play.
My burnt thumb. My cut palm. My attempt to be cook for the day.
The spa in the morn, then shopping, and lunch down at the pier.
Has now been culminated by the mess we see here.

Her mother’s china shattered. Her father’s silver bent.
This is not, in any way, how the day should have went.
Her son’s pictures broken. Her daughter’s vase upturned.
At least now she can’t notice, the steak is a bit burned.

I tried to be romantic, and guide her to her chair.
But I tripped on my eagerness and fell, entangled in her hair.
Hand in hand we fell, into perfection turned disarray.
We now sit on peas and steaksauce, as my heart falls to dismay.

I can not see her face, but the sounds she makes are clear.
I have completely destroyed those things that she holds dear.
She tries to hold in the tears, and the rage that is my due.
I can only sit and wait. What else could I do.

At last she lifts her head. Tears run down her face.
I feel like the most insignificant of the human race.
She forces a smile to calm me. A few deep breaths to abide.
Then she beams a glorious smile, with mirth that can not hide.

“The real china and silver are tucked away. The vase is good and well.
I knew you had planned this, your plans your friends did tell.
They said your heart is strong, but your fingers they do fumble.
They begged I look past mistakes, to the man that’s true and humble.”

“They said your heart is strong, but now you look a mess.
You are not prepared, nor dressed, to pass this woman’s test.
Upstairs with you, to the shower, where you shall bathe with me.
I have my own table prepared, it’s time for Plan B.”

This entry inspired by, and written for, Sunday Scribblings: Plan B.