Another Attempt at Being Bukowski

(October, 2013)

 

In a not-at-all surprising turn of events,
every drunk loser who shambles in
to my shitty coffee job
looks exactly like my father,
as if his face has been photoshopped
onto every transient face.
They consider their bills so carefully,
rubbing their thumbs back and forth,
not wanting to let go.
They begged hard for that money,
maybe harder than I ever begged my faceless childhood God
for my father’s love.
 
Meanwhile,
trapped in time,
Lacey is still dying and
I can’t get to her because
I have to work.
I think idly about hanging myself
by my mourning tie and maybe then
I could reach her
but there are no rafters and anyway
I am not finished here
yet.

 
Another and another shuffles by and as
the wake of beerstink and streetfilth
dissipates I remember that there is so much
I should be grateful for,
nothing more so than
my father’s absence,
but mostly I just feel again
that Shit and Death
are everywhere.

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