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
regrets.
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.