I walked in nervous
to the iconic fisherman’s watering hole.
It was Sunday afternoon
and everyone was hungover.
It was getting testy at the horseshoe pit.
I had made the ill-advised choice 
to launch my book of poems here.
The sun was out. 
Bud Lights were flowing like arguments.
I befriended a young deckhand 
built like Brad Pitt from Fight Club.
We raised a glass and lifted our spirits.
He sensed my energy, 
then he did something remarkable.
He stood on top of a picnic table 
and bellowed,
"Shut the fuck up, 
I wanna hear some fuckin' poetry."
I recited exactly three poems that day 
and sold five books.
I traded a copy for a pair of rubber boots.
And another for shots of Fireball.
An old boat captain asked 
if I'd write a poem for his girlfriend.
Another asked me to sign a book to his daughter.
I thought I'd never leave the bar.
When I finally got up to go, 
I didn't walk out. I floated.