Top That One Hank

she says I write better

than Bukowski;

“bullshit” I say;

no one writes better

than Bukowski,

he was the master,

but she insists,

so I take her at her word;

besides,

my ego can use the boost;

we talk of many things,

life, love, art, music,

everything under the sun,

going late into the night

and beyond,

and it is never long enough,

as time ceases to exist,

in this little world

where only her and I live and;

nothing else matters;

meanwhile the war rages on,

we’re almost to Baghdad (I think),

babies are being born,

replacing those who have died,

teenagers continue to fuck

in the backseats of cars

while listening to rock and roll,

down the street dogs are barking

as the moon shines brightly overhead,

life rolls slowly along and somehow

none of it seems important,

nothing but our world,

where we talk about lying

naked in hammocks on isolated

New Orleans balconies,

taking long steamy baths

in the middle of the

hot summer afternoon,

tasting each others bodies and

making love in ways

never before tried,

until our bodies melt into one;

top that one Hank.

.

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