FanPost

Bukowski Comes to Sanford


don’t ever forget where you come from.

it may be killing you

but don’t ever forget.

 

arches and stone columns

and bricks and mortar and powdered lines

and bridges and moving lights

and boxes and statues

and walkways that smell like the breath

and sweat and vomit

of 90,000.

 

a crazy drunk is beside me

but I’m too absorbed to notice.

“do any of these people know what the

hell they’re doing?”

I move away

but I can’t shake

him.

“screw this game and screw these guys and screw

this team!” he says.

I want to defend them and

I do,

but something tells me he isn’t

listening.

his drunken

stupor

and my miserable

squalor

each deal with the day.

 

I think of other moments:

green grass and

the people drunk and happy.

I am not one of them now but I may

be again.

 

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