I spent $23 on a poetry book
by Bukowski
and that was my Saturday night.

Upon exiting the parking lot
a minivan slammed on its brakes
stopping short of killing me.
It was dark blue
like the one that pulled out
in front of me this morning.
I started to become suspicious
that they were the same one
and that I was the target of some
dark minivan conspiracy.

I arrived home unharmed
and went into the garage for a cigarette.
There had been no phone calls, texts or messages
all day
silence filled the house
and light.

I had no plans.
No relationship to attend to.
No woman to listlessly lie beside on the couch
watching TV waiting for sex.
No gathering of friends
to play poker, talk football
and uselessly poke and prod at each other
like empty jackals.
No bar to go to
to feign interest in cheap, dull women
with their half-clothed, sagging bodies
leaning into me threateningly
looking to spout drama like a whale
over a free drink.

I spent $23 on a poetry book
by Bukowski ‘Love is a Dog From Hell’
and that was my Saturday night.
I cracked open the first beer
of many
and started to turn the pages
alone
and utterly content
as elsewhere people ran into each other
like accidents on the freeway
hooking up and breaking up
friends made and friends lost
dreams becoming possible
as others died.

While the world turned everywhere else.