I never met Bukowski but I know
this guy who knew him when and name-drops Hank
every now and again. He knew a lot
of famous dead guys back then, back in the Sixties,
and was kind of famous himself for a week
or two. I don’t know if he’ll ever live
that down but he keeps trying, looking for
the next comeback, getting straight for a while,
throwing away his damaged dream when doubt
taps him on the shoulder. But, hey, maybe
this time it will work; we do get older
and a little wiser, after all.
Older – there’s the word we both fear now,
the has-been, the never-was. Better than being
dead, though, even dead and famous. Bukowski
will never write another poem.
Stephen Brooke ©2006
Yeah, that's a real person I reference here, though I took out a poetic license. Very much doubt he ever reads any of my stuff.