After Bukowski by Craig Malesra

After Bukowski

This radiator comes to life

With a death-rattle

This pen glows in the night

Like a promise

This pad is sickly, takes

My abuse and ponders.

I am old.

I shuffle my way, places,

My skull is a sheet, my eyes

a backward-glowing

projector.

I suck in breath and

spit out

savage spite.

This life is a many-mile sprint

into a wall.

Many times now

have I won.

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