Mr. Bukowski, Said Poem by James McLain

Needless to say,
the bedroom became an issue, said she to me.
Concerning drinking, he.
Not to mention how it was never covered up.
And deep the uncertainty.
It got to the point where the drive each way,
from here to there became the moonlight of the evening.
Most times when I saw her,
she was already 'exhausted', 'worn out', or 'feeling good'.
The moon never was upon the pillow (and there were few of those)
My neighbor, Mr. Bukowski said, he never got the best.
Because the rest was left behind.