In Bukowski's poem
Nirvana,
the narrator leaves
a diner
where it was
warm and
beautiful,
with an allure
that would tempt a man
to stay forever.
As he leaves to board a bus,
he notices that
no one else had
felt the magic.

When I retrace
my moments of pure
happiness,
I find them so
warm and
beautiful.
But had they
felt the magic?