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

his family.

                                3 a.m.

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.

The End

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