This is a true story...

I'd passed it a thousand times,
This bar by the fish factory where tuna filled the air.
Sully's, read the peeling sign.
I paused.
Then, his voice still ringing in my ears--
I'm sorry, I can't do it anymore--
I opened the door and stepped inside.
Cigar smoke choked me, blue lights blinded me.
The bouncer ran one hand down my arm and winked "Okay."
I slid past gyrating bodies, music from the red-orange jukebox
Shaking the floor beneath me.
Blondes jammed the bar, brunettes beside them,
A red-head here and there to mix it up.
"Whaddyawant?"
I stared, unsure.
He grinned, the bartender with toothpaste-white teeth,
Beefy arms and a broad, shirtless chest.
I shrugged.
He slid a cool brown bottle my way.
Beer bit my throat, warmed my veins,
Chased the metallic fear from my mouth.
I finished it and asked for another,
Ignoring the shoving bodies behind me,
Pungent with souring cologne.
"Last call!"
I didn't move.
And when everyone had gone,
He came from behind the bar,
Fed the jukebox some quarters,
And to Sinatra's smooth crooning
Took me in his arms and danced my tears away.
I never even knew his name.