Reminders
My teacher can’t read Bukowski—
The lines in his poems are a bathroom with
a stained toilet seat and dead wasps behind the sink.
Open-mouthed musicians with
yellow fingertips and sour breath.
I can’t go to the drive-thru car wash and
watch soapy water pound my windshield.
I can’t use green shampoo that smells of
cheap cologne and is meant for people with dandruff.
I can’t accept a gift when the giver tells me,
No strings attached as I untie the bow.
I can’t date a man who thinks Docksiders and
white athletic socks are a suitable combination.
My teacher gets her car washed without
ever unbuckling her seatbelt.
She accepts gifts freely and writes brief
thank you notes on cards she buys at the drug store.
Green shampoo doesn’t bother her
as long as it makes her hair shine.
Footwear isn’t an important factor for her
when it comes to choosing a mate.
Bukowski is my favorite poet—
his words always mean what they say.
If he was there when I brought home
report cards, all C- and D, he would have
smiled and said only, Don’t try.
Then he’d turn back to his broken down typewriter
and drain his last sip of red wine.
