Nuptials   There must be smoke, the rising sign of fire and consummation — smoke from candles, smoke from incense, from the best man’s furtive toke in the unhallowed alley out back. Tired already from what has not yet begun, blear-eyed but vertical, purposeful, he tugs twice at his cuffs, exhales, points his creaking shoes back to the tumult and hush.                                                           “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, patting his pocket for the ring, then quick the other — there it is, thank God, no mistakes today, can’t fuck up, not here, not now, nothing to mock the moms, so resplendent in their mom gear, and not Jesus up there.                                         Who’s the best man?     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont June 2009