Newark

so at three
in the morning here
i am
after leaving empty glass
and borrowed butt
behind
to wonder what my man
would do
the one who called to me
about Being So Alone It Made Sense
in less and better words

and in all honesty
the pages i flipped to
on my smoky porch
made no goddamned difference
just as he knew
they wouldn't:
"The agony, always the agony,"
or some jive
as he misquoted Lorca
who i claim to understand
since i read of the
gay poet's death
in that book on the Spanish
Civil War. The truth is
nothing. It doesn't exist.

But as i skimmed those
age-old pages
that i bought when a buck meant more
i found what he was talking about
Mr. Bukowski:
a mouse to my left
shook dead leaves among the ivy
looking for a bite to eat
and in between drags
and ignored phone calls
i spat in its general direction.
that's life, friend.
that's agony.
consider this my humble
resignation.