Bukowski

At 10 PM
sitting on
my
thrift shop chair
unintentionally
devouring
Bukowski
when first
standing
in my 70's
outbuilt kitchen
with fluorescent light
shining
as accidentally
on
my painted hair

I actually
wanted to go
to bed
when I opened
the cardboard
I thought
a sticker held
for my son's
wall
which he broke
when he tried
to stand tall
before me,
his mommy,
who had accused him
falsely

Instead
it carried
two books
I ordered
of writers
already dead

I opened
both of them
reading
the words
printed
on dead stem

I was standing
because I really
wanted to go
to bed
than, curiosity,
took overhand

I was standing
now I'm sitting
letting
Bukowski's poetry
hit me

Rain and wind
raging
over the roof
against the bricks
of my 70's
outbuilt kitchen
I put the book down
and find myself thinking:
What would Charles feel
if he would see this girl
with no balls like him
made of steel
page turning his work
realising
she's
even more
stuck
now she has tasted
how awfully dull
her being is wasted

MotherHustler