Contradicting Muse

it’s late.
I’m reading Bukowski’s poems,
drinking wine.
the head of my 3-year-old daughter
rests on my lap.
I’m enjoying every morose page
feeling buzzed,
not on the Pinot noir
but by caressing her sleeping head,
running my fingers through
her sweaty curls.

and I am happier than Chinaski
at the racetrack
with women in one hand
and whiskey in the other.

life is full of contrast.

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2 thoughts on “Contradicting Muse

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