A ground rumbling take-off wakes me
from my literary reverie.
Lights of an airplane pass through
my retinas and I wonder if Bukowski
is on that plane.
It’s two a.m.
My plane was delayed 2 hours,
so I sit watching a suited man
fall asleep on his shoulder with his
briefcase in his hand.
There’s a ring on it.
I wonder how long he’s been away
from his family.
A young woman is on the phone
arguing with her father.
We’re all taking the same plane,
but I will never know why she’s
arguing with her father or how
long the man’s been away from
I’m on the plane next to the
girl who fought with her dad.
Her eyes are red and puffy.
I offer her some candies from my bag.
She tells me she likes Bukowski,
but she’s allergic to chocolate.