Bukowski claimed
5th and Main long ago,
back when it was
first called the Nickel,
long before the arrival of
the namesake diner with
bacon doughnuts,
tattooed waitstaff, and
skinny-jeaned patrons
long before I got there.
I used to have
fantasies of whiskey-soaked days
and coffee-drenched nights
like he had,
thought I’d write
gritty cigarette burnt poetry
like he did,
but now
I see
inspiration doesn’t
necessitate emulation
though I do love
a nice whiskey on the rocks,
coffee at all hours,
a quiet cigarette in the dark
his way
wasn’t meant
to be mine;
and though
I am roaming this city
sorta like he did,
the city’s
not exactly to me
what it was to him
and I
am not he
and I’m passing over
shared wanderground
but I’m not
Bukowski
or Fante
or Chandler
and I’ve gotta find
my own way.
