'Don't you ever worry,' she asked,
'about being written off as
a poor man's Bukowski?'
I answer, quite honestly
for a pretentious, wannabe poet:
'I'd be happy being
anyone's
Bukowski.'
Which was a cute line, I thought,
but she still
didn't **** me.
Maybe I was
someone's
Bukowski, but I
definitely wasn't
hers.