another interview

the interviewer leans toward
me, “some say that you are not
as wild as you used to
be.”
“well,” I answer, “I can’t keep
writing poems about
spilling beer into the laps of
whores.
a man moves on toward different
things.”

“some still want the
old Bukowski…”

“and that’s just what they’ve
got… have another
drink…”

“tell us about the
racetrack,” he suggests.

“there’s nothing to
tell…”

“you have to wait until
he’s been drinking for
some hours
to get the really good
stuff,”
says my wife.

the interviewer is not
used to drinking.
he stares at his
notes.
he is waiting for some
grand statement, some
grand happening.
he is confused with
misconceptions and
preconceptions.

and the worst thing
I find
about him:

he’s not
wild
enough.