i sent
a
letter
to
bukowski,
postmarked
today.

i
placed it
in
an empty
wine
bottle

and
set it
next
to
a
racing forum
on
the corner.

just a note of thanks.

i still
haven’t
worked out
time travel
and
such.

but i hope he gets it.

i scribbled on the label

charles bukowski
struggling writer
nineteen seventy six
los angeles

i imagine him

sitting
in
a
stained undershirt
and
underwear
reading
my
letter
while
tapping the keys
of
his typewriter.

out
of
scene
a woman
yells
about
the
cigar smoke.

he
screams
back
about
the artist
across
the way.

then
they
eat
fried chicken
and
make love
as
debussy
plays
softly
in the background.