Old white wine,
right down to the last drop.
I can see the distant neon lights,
through the faded blinds.
Malfunctioning, and only a
single-performance left.
In a moment, like a Bukowski poem
everything turned blue.
This one teaches,
that one teaches
and everyone becomes a poet.
Like in a Hollywood hotel.
So, I picked up my pen
and began to write.
But not about last years
calendar on the wall.
Or whether cat’s, sound
the same in different languages.
From another time,
another place, I heard your voice –
‘There will be trouble at t’ mill’.
So, I decided to wait
to write an immortal poem.
And will learn the language of the cats,
if you tell me, you love me.
A Wandering Poet 