i lean against my car for one more bukowski poem
before i go in and say yes ma'am to my wife
and no ma'am to my daughter
just one more poem so simple and pure and right
that i throw the book back into the car
and curse his name
the son of a bitch bounces to the floorboard
onto the bag of chips i keep there for secret eating and i curse
his name again
amble up to the porch and hammer
this dumb little store thumb of a poem into my phone
a whole pile of things no one in this house can understand
