Reading Poetry Poem by James McLain

Reading poetry
unlike Charles Bukowski
I have not done yet.
Though I fear
we
think to much alike.
It is a fear I some what like.
His fingers thick
and blunt like his speech.
Drinking with him, don't pretend.
Sweat is sweat,
for drink a woman and the rent.

Pretentious females
coming to hear him sweat
as he speaks
Watching.

Knowing and all they know was
a kindness they could not forget.

I am to old now for that as I have not yet
heard one of mine.
Maybe in solitary all alone
I would read one for you so it could
be read right.

And who do you think she in the mini
skirt is
old and as old as I am
I am young enough to look but not touch.

Too touch the middle is hard work for me
just a dab
just quick breath blown across so it breaths.

Where with Charles and I laugh perhaps the
finger is all you would need.
Still there's Jane,
what would you make him do
for that bottle of wine.

Where with me I would lightly tap and tap
until l you grew humid and my tree I'd keep
strapped to my knee.
Though across the clouds the friction on the
cotton
would bring tears to your face and I would just
fall asleep
and who would come back for more of the
same
who I ask, 'but who.
Which one would you have me read to you.
Being first in line with your hand held out,
to whom.