54/365

i have a stack of old
bukowski books
from when i was in my twenties
and living in the city and new york
taking up residence on my book shelf.

they’re weather worn
and pock-marked,
moldy
like the ole bum himself.

we used to read the poems
to each other
alone and together
like a litany of holy books
late into the nights
as the candles burned,
the bottles drained
and the flowers stayed dead
in the sticking vase.

i flip through them
now,
sniffing for inspiration—
stanzas circled and starred
the dog-eared pages
like dull mirrors
reveal nothing new.

we did not read women then,
we did not know women then,
not in ways they might have taught us
how to be better men.