I got off work
rode my bike home
and lay naked on my bed.
a nice night wind
moved in my room
and eased my pressures.
I picked up a book from
my nightstand
it was heavy but flexible book
there was a close up picture
of an old bearded man
cigarette burning between his fingers
and on the picture
there were letters written like this:
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
THE PLEASURES OF
THE DAMNED
POEMS, 1951 – 1993
I thumbed through the book, and
I chose a poem at random
it was called
“a gold pocket watch.”
it was about Bukowski`s grandfather
a German man
a man who stood straight
a man with strange smell on his breath
a man who gave his medals, and
his gold watch to Charles,
but
they thought him odd
“he drank too much,” they said
and Charles never met him again.
I liked that poem
I like Charles Bukowski
his poems
can bring back the damned.
and as I put the book down
I though of my own grandfather
he was a stout man with
thick hair and thick fingers
I remember him sitting on a bed
by the window
drinking and looking at me silently
he looked old and smelled old
that’s all I remember of him
nothing less, nothing more.
he was seventy-four
when he died
I heard he liked the bottle
I wish I could have few drinks with him
his name was Thomas.