Breakfast at Bukowski’s

Dorothy’s Chesterfield dangles

from gray angular lips, spirals

of smoke blossom and murk

his kitchen dank and dark

with stink of gin, midnight’s 

half-forgotten sins. 

Sizzling bacon  erupts like Vesuvius 

preparing Pompeii for the party of its life. 

I slump over a tray of poached eggs

coaxing them onto a plate. Dorothy

gobbles 4 strips of bacon, swigs 

someone’s beer from last night

smashing her smoke into the formica

table splattered with waffles

and mutters ‘Free Formosa NOW!’

We prepare to vacate at once, scramble

through the ripped screen door stumbling 

onto that alley laden with dumpsters, 

scofflaws, bumblers and saints.