The Marathon Microphone

His voice stretched like taffy,  

sticky with sugar-coat and sprawling praise.  

We chewed on each word,  

our jaws aching before dessert arrived.  

Forks clinked timidly against porcelain,  

a background jazz to his opus.  

Underneath the cascade of metaphors,  

I watched my cousin swipe left,  

her face a glowing rectangle of refuge.  

Across the table, my sister scrolled  

through photos of her dog —  

posed in a hat, paws crossed politely.  

My uncle spoke of "ever after,"  

his sentences hot-glued with clichés,  

while others built quiet fortresses,  

their thumbs soft-hammering brick by brick.  

The bride's smile seemed pasted on,  

like the rosy sticker in a child's book.  

When he finally paused to sip his water,  

the table inhaled as one body, relieved.  

And still, there was cake to come.