Ode to Bukowski by Sam Birnbaum

last night I wrote a poem about
an alcoholic.
and then I got drunk.
alone.

I woke up,
face fastened
to the floor.
and I could
not read
the poem
anymore.
vomit opaqued
my pen strokes.
a pungent
whiteout.

so I went out on the porch
and lit my cigarette.
and watched women go by.
and wondered what woman
would want to be with a
self-loathing shit like
me.

now I am
finished
with my poem
and will file
it away in
my drawer
before I go
get drunk
again. alone.