Wednesday, April 30, 2008

I had a date with Bukowski.
No change for coffee,
So I brought him the piss awful stuff from the faculty room.

He either didn't mind
Or couldn't tell the difference
He wouldn't stop talking.

He spoke to me in the back of my pickup truck,
Taught me things
While America's youth suffered inside without me.

It was all very romantic.
I went home, took a shit,
And wrote a poem.

1 comment:

Publisher said...

love really is a dog from hell... sigh