The girls married soldiers, sailors,
marines—it was wartime, a thousand
men for every woman

on the island.
One had a church wedding
with a priest, a proper bouquet;

the rest stood quietly
before quick justices
of the peace.

The one I knew best ran away
to San Francisco, eloped to Reno
and a two day gambling spree

honeymoon, which began her
long run of bad luck.

Anton was buried, wearing his poker face,
then Mrs. Anton, and that was the end
of the maiden name.

Life dealt each of the girls
some misery, in spades.