Bukowski’s ghost
is horsing in the garden –
careening crazily –
a grounded Red Baron
flying a Fokker Eindecker
drunken-legged –
arms thrown out as wings,
then elbows hunched,
hands close together,
forefingers squeezing
triggers, letting them have it
twin machine-gun style –
teeth and lips spitting
bursts of rapid fire –
his face splits laughing,
shirt and eyes wine-stained.
