I found some old
cigarettes in a drawer
which was good
because I want one.
The paper crumbles
in my fingers, brown leaves
fall to the yellow
kitchen floor like feathers.
I pour a drink and it goes down like
gasoline. Fire licks my throat;
The devil’s tongue lashes.
Tonight I understand Bukowski, the
old man drowning in a pool of
whiskey and
Old Drunkard old, old Poet
tonight you
are my idol of song.
A cough to your memory,
and something strong, very strong
all around.

Robert Allen lives and loves in northern California, where he writes poetry, takes long walks and looks at birds.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *