. . . and it was then that I realized
he was my equal.
He knew it and I knew it
yet there I was, drunk, drinking whiskey
and eating bits of salami and cheese
and throwing him the occasional morsel
like I was Henry the 8th or some shit
when really I was just another drunken asshole
with a dog who loves him and looks up at you
thinking, "Really? Again?"
George Carlin was right, it's their eyebrows that kill you.
(stream of consciences while reading 'Post Office' by Bukowski)
Ken Owen Van Niddy Press August 2016