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.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

