A Beer With Bukowski

sat two stools down
from bukowski
holding up a high-life
he nodded in my direction
downed it
tapped the empty
on the bar

another

I whispered
bartender
tell him I’m a poet

bukowski emptied
another one
tapped it twice
twisted out
his cigarette
went to the john

I leaned in
whatdidhesay

sounding like cagney
& polishing small circles
on the worn bar
he said,

who the hell ain’t