Bukowski by Barbara Moore

I see Bukowski everywhere
pissing against the wall
in the alleyway
pissing off the vegetable vendor
lifting fresh parsley to his nose
with dirty finger-nailed hands
inhaling deeply, never buying

weaving his way down the avenue
cursing the bicycle riders
whistling at the one-legged woman
in the sexy red dress
sprawled on the sidewalk
beside an orange cat
on a rhinestone leash

I see him in the post office
in mock-like slow motion
saluting the clock at noon
leaving a customer open-mouthed
transaction incomplete
hurrying to the lukewarm beer
stashed in his third-hand car

I see Bukowski at the bar
Sometimes Jane is with him
but mostly he’s alone
observing his reflection
in the broken glass
looking for a fight
or a temporary friend

I see him at the track
white-knuckling his losses
numbing his sorrows
with baby sips of beer
as he finds the words
and the lines flow
and a poem begins


Editor's note: "Bukowski" previously appeared on the blog here and now.


Author bio:

Barbara Moore lives in New York City. Her work appears in the poetry anthology The World According to Goldfish and in the online journals lines written with a razor and heroin love songs.