I called him “Bukowski”,
because he wrote with the same disdain as the poet,
and succumbed to all the same vices.

He loved to drink,
He loved to smoke,
and he loved women,
one in particular,
me.

He wrote often.
He would lay on the couch,
cigarette lit,
and write,
while I played sloppy chord progressions on the piano,
because I was drunk,
not on alcohol,
but on love.

And although he possessed Bukowski’s vices,
he did not possess his face.
There were no boils,
or scars,
just the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

I called him “Bukowski”,
but I eventually had to stop calling,
because,
he was too Bukowski.