Bukowski

It was a good day
when I met Bukowski.

He held my hand.

Real tight.

Then he carried me over his shoulder
from the post office to his place.
His door was marked ''Hank's House''.
The walls were stained yellow.

He sat me down on his drawers and
untied my rabbit fur boots and
placed them on his windowsill.
He stroked them for a while,
as though they were one of his beloved cats.

Then he laid down on the floor next to his bed.
He told me to think of his chest as

a spring board.

''Imagine you’re trying to touch the ceiling and
jump''.

I thought this was strange so I asked why.
''Because I want to feel the weight of you on my
heart.'' he replied.

So I stepped on his chest

(his skin felt loose beneath my feet) and jumped.
As I did he caught my ankles
And my arms went thrashing through the air.