three boats, four wives

my friend tells
me about his boat, his second
or third. maybe the fourth.
one less than the number
of wives he's had.
they seem to sink
annually, or catch fire.
the boats, not the wives.
he's usually in a bar
when he calls,
sounding lit up and
happy. healed from his
mini stroke and hip replacement.
i'm in a tiki bar in
Solomon's he'll say.
come on down.
it's crazy.
he holds his phone up
to the clanging
of the band
attempting Margaritaville.
he'll be seventy soon,
which he reminds
me and everyone else within
earshot of his loud
voice.
he's in his silk shirt,
the one with coconut trees
emblazoned on the front
and wearing his famous
khaki shorts and sandals.
it's February. there's snow
on the ground.
I imagine he's doused himself
with his favorite cologne,
old spice.
his sliver hair slicked
back, a rolex on his wrist
that's only right just twice.
he's on the prowl and
needs a wing man, but I
tell him sorry,
I can't make it tonight.