TO THE GIRL
WHO READ
BUKOWSKI
IN MY DUI
CLASS
That dumb misdemeanor's off my record now.
Over a decade since I did 24 hours for driving drunk
and bunked with Ivan Denisovich—the one book
in the cell block book bin that wasn't total bullshit.
Some wise-guy guard's idea of a joke, I guess.
But that's all, beautiful blue lights included,
less memorable than you: the brooding fallen angel
in our court-mandated alcohol awareness class.
Booze school, said a soul-patched repeat offender,
slowly stirring cream into his coffee.
Arms crossed tight as dry ice, you radiated
righteous negativity, a vaporous CO2 cool
as your copy of Hot Water Music simmered on the table.
Zero-fucks-given in the flesh, you sat flashing
invisible switchblades, staring straight ahead
with Egyptian detachment, sphinx
in a studded leather belt. About the time they told us
anything over two drinks is technically a binge,
you reached for that book, exhaled and opened it.
Your aura exploded, high-lumen Klein blue
beside me as your eyes beamed onto the pages—
helicopter spotlights searching a perp, combing
darkness for a revelation that always fled the scene.