Bukowski

Bottle(s) of wine
and three hours of
sweaty sleep
to the wind,
I awake prematurely
to the sound
of the cat’s meow.
Find myself
(still half drunk)
thinking of
Bukowski
and the hangover
verse of yesteryear.
I,
myself
find it difficult
to write these words
(hold this pen)
while the
cyanide
stirs
inside.