the housekeeper asks me whether i want packets.
what packets, i ask.
condoms, he says, in a low voice.
The next morning i wake up with a bad hangover
and after the memories come back
i reach for the collection of bukowski’s poems
to check whether we had met somewhere
because bukowski had all these things in him:
women, alcohol, and mercy
and a man riddled with a history of guilt, shame, and death.
bukowski, of course, is no help
because he told me not to try.
but all i do is try
and fail.
i raced everyone, broke rules, and pushed people aside
only to reach where i began.\