My girlfriend’s father hooked and hauled it 
aboard a chartered cabin cruiser the previous summer. 
Now it’s arched. mid-breach, a canopy 
above the recliner shoved against the wall, 
a crocheted afghan draped over my girlfriend 

and me, the TV on, Disney cartoons. 
I still don’t know if it was real or fake. 
Her sister and little brother on the couch across 
from us, he’s hooked on some blaring
lunatic chase, she’s scratching in a sketch pad, 

the grating rhythms of cross-hatching.
On the patio out back, her parents 
entertain her father’s work colleagues and wives
on Chaise lounges, pitchers of highballs and Manhattans, 
chips and a dip called seven layers of heaven.

Lewd laughs and crude jokes, seep down 
through open screens. It’s all just getting underway,
and I’m on my own, down and under, having no clue 
what I’m about to do and she offers no guidance,
though she should, from what I’ve heard at school.