I find a half pack of stale smokes
behind some novels of
Bukowski’s drunken knowledge
look into the night with a smile
walk through the rains of January
too the bar
without stepping on any lines
I do that at times
when there’s a poem in me
that wants to escape
the madness within
I head for that smoke room
sit in the corner
with pen and paper
two mugs of beer
I drink alone
I let that poem escape
onto blank paper.
Copyright © 2015 by Henry Doyle
Published in STORYBOX: an anthology from the Thursdays Writing Collective.
Edited by Elee Kraljii Gardiner, Otter Press, Vancouver.B.C www.thursdayspoemsandprose.ca