Sleeping on the Diagonal

 

I read Bukowski today,

a poem for swingers,

bookmarked and coffee-stained,

living words I once knew by heart.

 

I read Bukowski today,

slid him off a dusty shelf

and trailed my fingertips along his side,

spine cracked and stiffened, a lover neglected.

 

I read Bukowski today

just after sunrise, with gritty eyes

and full thoughts

another night witnessed through to completion.

 

I read Bukowski today

and cried

for the words I had forgotten,

for the years rubbed raw,

for letting my gentle heart harden,

forged to steel

and honed to sharpened.

 

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