God Loves a Sinner
After R.B.
I sat with Bukowski
on the steps of the
dock, smoking a
cigarette, shooting
lasers at the moon to
measure the distance
from dusk to dawn.
He talked about drink,
starvation and crazy,
crazy women. I talked
about Plato, Elvis and
Baudelaire. The sun
went down and the sun
came up. The post office
dug its deep claws
into both of us.
Isobel
Mon 19th Dec 2011 14:19
I like this. Though it doesn't rhyme - it does flow - which for me is what good poetry is all about. I like the fact that it is understated. The post office could be symbolic of a whole lot of things...