Went to Vincent’s again.
There’s a Charles Bukowski poem
trapped in a tombstone
inked on his ribs.
Bluebird.
He put a broken record on.

Sat across from him,
drinking.
“I’ve never met a girl that likes old-fashioneds.”
His heroes stared strangely,
judgmental portraits glaring
from frozen white walls.

It was Joni Mitchell’s birthday.
A text from Vincent, unread.
“I’ve looked at love from both sides now.”

Put the glass down.
Go home.