Fifteen Minutes

 

In the fifteen minutes

you claimed would elapse

before you arrived at my house

wearing a tuxedo,

 

I read Charles Bukowski

and saw the December boat parade.

Before you arrived, I heard blow horns

punctuate the salsa CD

 

spinning in my bedroom.

I read about Bukowski’s cats,

both of them,

and their sanity

 

in the late hours of the night.

My fingers,

all ten of them,

this eager to type

 

This Early in the Night.

 

Written 2005

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