One day on the back porch
many years ago, catching
some rays, sunning, as it were,
after the wife had been fired for
crimes against nature, self and child
and the dream and the life and the job
and the house and everything once loving
to be fed, fucked and financed gone, I looked up
at the clouds and one was an exact impression of
Bukowski’s beat face traveling above me and
the cloud right behind was, to put it bluntly,
a huge, upright cock. I should have run
and got my camera but I was sunning,
and just about done, and I knew it,
and Bukowski knew it, too.