Outside the Tiny Bookshop, This Methhead Is Feeding Her Dog Noodles
She tells me his name is Bullshit.
I watch them walk away
through a construction zone
toward the park.
I know I’ll never see them again.
Inside, there’s an employee arranging
a tiny table of Bukowski books.
When he catches me staring, he confesses
he doesn’t even like Bukowski.
His name’s Calvin and he misses
West Virginia. He wanted to get away
from the drugs but they usually find you
in the end. All I can say is, “You’re not wrong.”
Horror Sleaze Trash 