"354 Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s Grave"

[In which our intrepid poet L.E. Leone channels Bukowski with startling results]
354 Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s Grave


Standing up on buses is
my new favorite way
to travel. Sometimes I hold
on to something, sometimes
not. I close my eyes, feel
the city bumping beneath
my feet. Gentlemen offer me
their seats. “No thank you, thank
you though!” At the dollar
store called The Dollar Store, corner
of Fillmore and Geary, everything
is a buck fifty. I made
this poem in my head, busboarding
to a doctor’s appointment on
the 22. Scribbled it down
on the back of my co-pay receipt, waiting
for the doctor to see
me. I did not sit down. The title, “354
Miles Northwest of Bukowski’s
Grave,” I got from the dollar
store. For a buck-fifty. Took a wild
guess at the distance
between Bukowski’s grave
and me. Didn’t even know until
later, back home, where
he was buried. Then, my ass
problem seen to, lanced, ‘wick’ed
and oozing into a folded gauze pad held
between cheeks by my tightest,
sexiest panties, I looked it up:
357 miles. Missed
by three.


L.E. Leone
© 2011