After Charles Bukowski
A crow caws from the telephone wire,
four pigeons flutter in the terra-cotta,
pecking at the invisible rice grains,
a couple of sparrows flit,
chasing one another.
I sit on the balcony,
with pen and paper in my hand,
mulling over the unreal verses
with a mind fuddled
from too much of wine.
Without reason or rhyme,
I’m reduced to birdwatching—
you suffered the same fate when you were sober,
and stared at the tombstone still typewriter—
why is it so hard to write, Monsieur Bukowski?
Poetry by Bibek
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Written on 2019-07-10 at 14:21
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