BUCKOWSKI AND ME AT 43

i read buckowski
on the toilet
magically putting 
my guts in 
the plumbing

read his poem
about being 43
about the $22000 
in three months

his grey hair 
and pot belly
typewriter
in and out
of hock . . .

i stretched out
on the pm bed
on my side back
against the sun
hands in an 
almost prayer
in front of me

the endless 
lexicon
of workers
and managers
out there
behind me
making their
desperate moves

the little cat
comes to join me
so i know
i am doing 
it right

he lays down
in a mirror image
of me
his paws out
in an 
almost prayer

his claws touch
my fingers
his head rests
on the same pillow
his pot belly
his few 
grey hairs . . .

theres always 
poetry
endless poetry
behind the closed
curtains
and in
the dust

always fables
of the
storm cloud
written
by the
unkillable
husbands of
the moon . . .

my grey hairs
shaved away
my pot belly
slumped
same as
the cats
like two 
half empty bags
slung on the bed

he keeps his 
illness in 
check
eating right
doing his time

and so do i
and we close
our eyes
together
against
the incredible 
size of 
another
afternoon
and all
the things
to do