Carry A Campstool (Revised) Poem by Margaret Alice Second

Hairdressers, facials, manicures, dressmakers;
weddings are special events - but I've never had
the inclination to indulge my appearance. I go as
me, warts and all, hoping for a fellow conspirator
agreeing content of the head is more important
than the hair thereon, hoping for someone

who is into spiritualism and intelligence of a
loving energy surrounding us, discussing theories
on crop circles magic or the mystery of a missing
Marie Celeste passenger - I take 2 or 3 books
along to make my point; just choosing a topic
for conversation supersedes any urgency of trying

To look pretty, it tragically ends on entry of the next
beauty and when the bride appears the rest of the
world pales into insignificance - photo shoots take
eons, one wears flat shoes, carries a campstool to
survive - otherwise resentment of a bridal Parties'
selfishness can overpower a quiet saint,

Not that I am one, I'm able to amuse myself while the
bride bathes in unlimited personal attention; this is
psychological preparation necessary for a taste of hell
moreso than attention wasted on personal grooming…
oops, best not send this musing to the bridegroom,
he would be sorely hurt by my flippancy…