Lashed by the spray
of whiskey-drenched spittle,
I would heave-to
and batten down the hatches.

Her eyes, two black markers
inside two red ones, spoke
truly in signal
of the tempest's coming.

I grew tired with endless meals
of verbal hardtack,
while riding the peaks
and troughs known
in those tumultuous waters.

I checked my maps
for quieter quays,
then set my sails
and ran before the wind;
her words becoming flotsam
in my wake.