Real, Stupid Love

The tiki bar at sunset

is blood orange and sad.

—

Everybody here

is older than your mother,

and the karaoke, out of tune

and out of style.

—

And I know, for sure, that I

can’t talk my way out of this.

—

We won’t stay longer,

because I know the docks will

be torn apart when

the hurricane hits next week.

—

“There’s so much shit,” you say,

“to pack before we leave”.

—

Tomorrow morning,

“we ditch this swamp, head up North,”

you say, behind yet

another round of cocktails.

—

Tomorrow morning, we

get the hell away, again.