On a Tuesday night,
I get lost
in a love poem by Bukowski.

I want to be held
and loved
by someone with big arms,
with ears and feet,
just like me.

I think of all the men,
all of them,
their hands holding me
like the women held Bukowski
in the love poem he wrote.

Only he's him
and I'm me
and he's dead
and I'm on a bed
on a fancy silver sheet,
legs crossed,
eyes scrambling
over the words
love love love

and I can't get out of those words,
that remind me of men loving me
and me loving some of them,
and others not,
and them wanting me
to love them back
but I couldn't.

Those lines of the poem fill me up
and make me glow
like a hot doorknob

and I want Bukowski
to take the book from me,
tell me to not read another word
or he'll smother me with paper,
drench me in wine
and lighter fluid
and strike a match.