Top That One Hank

she thinks 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 could use the boost;

we talk of many things,

her and I, 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 have sex

in the backseats of cars,

while listening to rock and roll on the radio,

dogs down the street keep on barking,

as the moon shines brightly overhead,

life rolls slowly along and somehow,

none of it seems important,

except for our world (hers and mine),

where we talk about lying naked in a hammock,

on an isolated New Orleans balcony,

taking long steamy baths together,

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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