What would it take

What would it take

To ring the changes?

Even as he wrote the words

He knew the answer was

More than he was prepared

To lose

He scraped the pen over the page

Closed the journal

Dragged callused fingers

Across his forehead

Wiping the sweat onto his pants

And called himself out

Not too loudly

So as to be heard

By the couple in the corner

Sharing chocolate cake

A look of profound regret

On the woman’s face

Perhaps she had flunked out too

The guy was a tool

It was plain to see

Too mean to fork out for

A proper cream tea

For his lady

Foxy though she may be

As she chanced a glance

In his direction

There was no easy way out

Every choice a risk

Even the nip he pours

Into the cup

Dulls his willingness

To engage

There is method

To this Bukowski disdain

It helps keep him sane

It means there is no need to act

Any differently

There is vanity in disguising

His need for connection

He is afraid his truth

Will be laid bare

A writer they called him

He wouldn’t dare

But there is kudos

In silent acceptance

How he wished to believe

They were right

What he would give

To be as gifted as to survive

A Tempest

Come across a Paradise lost

Have great expectations

His tiresome words more crime

Than punishment

For not trying

He was too afraid of himself

To push

A man without trust

Lost in pursuit

Of a dream

Without really flying

But bouncing along

Feet dragging in shallows

Not lifting or falling

Just drifting over the surface

Dunked in and out of the storm

In his teacup

With little purpose

Other than to breathe

And believe

There must be more to life

Than self-contempt.