I met Bukowski in a dream.
He told me about life,
mainly women and drink.
I told him, I knew something
about women and drink –
and how to ease tender misery.
He wanted to know more
and this tender misery.
So I talked of faceless bones,
scattered in the streets.
Of broken hearts
and broken souls.
And a slow breath
that becomes a silent breath.
Cast out in the autumn wind.
He smiled, pleased
with our work.
And walked quite friendly,
out of my life.