Running Into Bukowski Poem by Russell Dupont

RUNNING INTO BUKOWSKI

I know.
The son of a bitch
has been dead
for about thirty years.

But here I am,
in some sleazy bar
in LA's Skid Row
and this guy
eases himself
on to the stool
right next to me.

Scarred face,
thin, scraggly beard,
a butt hanging
from his lips.

The bartender,
who looks
as battered by life
as the guy next to me,
sets down a beer
and a short glass.

'Here ya go, Hank, '
he says and 'Hank, '
glances over at me,
winks and raises his glass.

'Fuck, ' he says,
'You have to die
a few times
before you can
really live.'

[originally published in the NAUGATUCK RIVER REVIEW]

Russell Dupont