I reached for my Bukowski book on the bed
and a bug ran across the cover.
I pulled my hand back fast,
surprised, then embarrassed.
I looked for the bug:
under and around the book, between the pages—finding nothing.
I wondered if maybe I had imagined the whole thing—a trick of the light,
a small, skittering ball of shadow, placed between the words
I’ll never know.
I put the book down,
wrote this poem.
I can imagine that old bastard—Bukowski—
appreciating the entire scene,
smiling behind a cigarette,
sitting in a filthy green recliner,
surrounded by dead soldiers—
a glass of wine in his right hand,
his left balled in a trembling fist.
Old Hank always liked bugs on the page.