I was stuck on the Reservation, so I married a Native American man (my new boss), and cancelled my doctor’s appointment in Billings, Montana

A humorous longette lite responding to January’s First Nations prompt by guest poet Nolcha Fox

[CW: addiction, gambling, debt]

All I could do was scream and cry — my gambling addiction was my undoing.
Couldn’t I have more restraint, and just drive right past the evil casino?
Absolutely not! Gambling is in my veins, ask my dear old dead dad.
Because of him, I got stuck on this Native American reservation.

I pulled off the interstate to fill up my empty gas tank, but instead I saw
the flashing lights of the reservation casino. Goodbye, good sense.
I won a little, and lost my life savings. I couldn’t pay for my glass of wine.
I sidled over to the ladies’ room, hoping to escape my obligation.

A good-looking dude with a smile and a gun blocked the casino exit.
The only way to square things up was to marry him and work at the casino.
If I made customers happy by serving drinks, he’d give me my car keys back.
Watching how he ran the casino, it’s a wonder the white man won the country.

It turns out life’s not so bad. He’s a good husband and a wonderful dad.
I have my car keys, but no plans to leave. There’s no gas in my gas tank.
If your addictions bring you to the casino — no need for you to worry.
We have openings for a dishwasher and a bartender.