Sara-Anne Beaulieu My Almost Made-Up Poem For Charles Bukowski Bukowski, I would have loved you more if I could have sat cross-legged on yr dirty carpet, rolling cigarettes and watching the clippings of yr toenails, those dingy quarter moons, tumble as you hunched over the side of yr bed burping and trimming away. I would have leaned with you, over the railing at the track, swearing at the muted jockeys, knowing we spent our last buck of beer money on Jack Chance. Bukowski, I would have held you up, walked you past last call and down the dirty streets. Past the whores and firehouses that never stop wailing. I’d lay you down, let yr demons weep for you, the lost girl, her poems in upper case letters about ANGELS AND GOD. Let them sink into the stained mattress. And finally, I too, would sink back to the stained carpet, and mumble sadly how the great American poem is dead. We’d share a laugh, a rolled cigarette, and watch the blue-gray smoke slip out the window.

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