How Bukowski Ended My Poem Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Growing this budding numbness:
Listening to Bukowski- it feels good to hear
A man as scarred as me,
Even a better man; but, Oh lord,
I don’t believe in you, but in the old roofs
Of houses,
Of graves being filled in and covered with the
Masturbations of green carpet
Of loneliness of the less professional acrobats:
My dog farts- one or the other, it smells
Good,
Makes me think of Disney World, of the lower
East coast of Florida- I wonder if houses are
Growing cheaper- I need to move out.
I need to get laid, but it is so difficult,
And now my chest is the part of me with the
Most scars:
I am embarrassed: it floods, I think of Erin.
She calls me by an old name.
She doesn’t read these anymore; its all old news,
But I’m pretty sure her tits are still great.
Bukowski is over. His cat is asleep,
But Erin’s tits are still great some place in Florida.
That is how I imagine Bukowski would have ended
My poem,
Erin.