I’m Bukowski sitting in a hotel lobby bar,

patterned vaguely mosaic, atypical.

The time continuum means nothing now.
Where is my car?

I watch a blue light above the door flash for no reason.
People’s voices, soft songs of unnamed birds,
the same sound for so many years.
Your bathroom was beautiful.

What does it matter?

The memory is forming. I hear
‘click ‘click ‘click of hard balls in the room next door.

Another game—I’ll sit this one out.
Why didn’t you come? I’ll never know:

the sign says, “Don’t stop…

Stop…Small Children.”
Either way, I have to stop.

I made everyone suspicious. I found one of
the four roaming dogs and made friends with it.
It bit me. Or I bit it.

I can’t remember where I parked.