Bukowski

a poem by Donna Isaac

He walked into the bedroom, grizzled, smiling
and bent me back slowly, kissing, long,
and sweet, like honeydew melon.
His groin pushed softly into mine,
but nothing happened
though we both wanted it.
Wrapped in a towel, he went to the kitchen
and helped himself to shrimp salad
served in my green celery boat.
Later, my husband came home
so I introduced him to Buk,
who smiled again, shrimp in his teeth,
a cigarette in his ropy hand.

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