Black Cab

Charles Bukowski talks to me again; it's been a while. He stares at me from under those heavy eyebrows, as he does, and scoffs. Is this where you thought you were going? You called the wrong person. He takes a long gulp of some unnamed liquid, spills ashes all over, what does he care. You drink water because it's a school night and you have all these things still hanging around your to-do list. He looks at you in disdain, so finally his face mirrors yours.

A stranger speaks to me of the possibility of life on other planets. He says maybe I'll see you soon then, and you wonder if we'll ever make it far enough into space that it feels like something. You set the bar high, and then move it to the impossible. Bukowski is pleased with that, certainly,  but now his ash is all over your white page and you forget what your to-do list wanted you to say: instead all there is is piles of poetry, all there is is the American night and word at your side, you filled your bag with chaos and euphoria, how do you explain to a stranger you sold your sanity for a pocket full of mumbles and is it even worth trying?

Bukowski pours me a drink. I take it. There's smudges of ink on my fingers, a trail of stardust in my wake. We don't have to say anything at all.