It was a lonely haunted game,
going with you where the crabs came in
and the music couldn’t be escaped. It was
Jimmy Buffett or Bachman-Turner Overdrive,
a cover band on the back deck where
palmetto bugs ducked between cracks
because they knew they were cockroaches.
That night, we knew everything about
choosing the least offensive margarita,
and as far as we knew, that would suffice.