Charles Bukowski as an Old Shoe; What is bottled up by Mary Anne Griffiths

Charles Bukowski as an Old Shoe

On the side of the road an old shoe

useless on its own, except for throwing.

Where’d you stagger

half-assed drunk in dives

cigarette butts stamped

sidewalks to cheap motels

loose laces, rough faces.

Your skin, leathery, tongue

hanging out now quiet

parched for that drink

that last streetlight calling

you home.  As you step

over the threshold your sole

crusted with dog shit flaps.

No one here is trying.

We sent away the redheads

and we are waiting

for the other shoe to drop.

What is bottled up

pieces of fear

clink against the glass

laughter that pinned you

like a lost moth

rusted knife blades

of failure, still sharp

yellowed teeth, rattling

with all the things unsaid

bent nails, crooked hopes

thorns that prick you

as you toss and turn in bed

tangled in string that has

bound up your dreams

these are tempting

these are cookies and milk

for a broom-riding Santa

climbing down the chimney

the bruised witch

looking for the bottle

to climb back into