When “Margaritaville”

comes on the radio,

 

I always think of

American tourists

in towns like Ixtapa

and Mazatlán,

 

whooping it up

at Senor Frog’s,

with buckets of iced Coronas

and peel-your-own shrimp.

 

Clusters of Parrotheads

in gaudy shirts, adorned

with tequila bottles

and palm trees,

 

swaying in their

rented beach hammocks,

 

signaling their waiter

for a double shot,

discussing stock portfolios

in jocular tones.

 

Six shots later,

they run towards the water,

pale legs flashing

in the winter sun.

 

Everyone has lost a lover,

everyone wants to

blame someone else,

 

and nobody knows

where they put that

goddamn saltshaker.

 

Perhaps they

left it at home,

with the rest

of their baggage.