Old Hank Always Liked Bugs on the Page

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.




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