Chinaski Poem by Jonny Brackney

i bet he had
no genuine lover.
not a single
genuine friend.
drowning in booze
and self-loathing
clutching his pitiful
madness.
i bet the local writers
would come
knocking at his door
with poems in their pocket,
carefully constructed
particularly
for his
miserable,
drunken eyes.
i bet he read one line
before he handed it back to them,
hating their attempt to impress him.
i bet they felt so dejected.
they should have never showed him.
they should have judged their words themselves,
but-
i'm sure i'd have done the same
and he probably would have
despised me.