As you sit down
Poised to write a
Poem on your

Sister’s old black
Typewriter, a
Ghostly Mr

Bukowski comes
And puts his hand
On your shoulder;

He’s puffing hard
On a phantom
Cigarette and

Leaning, scanning
The page and what
You’ve written so

Far. You’ve written
Nothing about
*****, broads or cats,

He says, dropping
Ghostly ash on
The new carpet,

Not a word here
About *** or
Bets or getting

Drunk, he adds, then
Inhaling deep,
Coughing, wheezing,

Squeezing your thin
Shoulder, letting
Off a puffy

Phantom ****. You
Need to tell the
Reader things to

Get them to turn
The page, get them
To want to drink

Or ****, he says.
It’s my poem,
Bukowski, you

Reply, but he
Has gone now, the
Room is chilly,

The carpet has
Ghostly ash and
Your glass of white

Wine is empty.
You sit there poised
Over the old

Typewriter, the
Poem half done,
Half waiting to

Be written, the
Fingers itching
To be done. If

Bukowski comes
Again, he can
Write the next new

Poem, he can
Write the next one.