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Bukowski sits on my keyboard, writes bad poetry
it's all your fault
that i got a rejection letter
the letters were wrong
and their order not right,
what was i thinking,
sending my thoughts out loud
to a Brit no less,
la di da
i digress
i just wasn't in proper dress
for the refusal,
metaphors all dressed up in
red silk and stiletto heels,
my panties in a bunch
in your pocket
Buk,
you've always told me the
truth,
shall i order hot dogs smothered
with onions and sauerkraut
from the vendor down Lorain Street
and write poetry on the napkin
i wipe with
send it, sealed with a kiss?
the eagle of my heart breaks
into its sojourn, and here i am
feeling like pay dirt, the sky
thunders, i think it's going to rain.
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