Turkey on Rye

today in room 304 i read
an old friend walt whitman
while bukowski shouted
obscenities from a shelf

e.e. cummings whispered
something about love
is thicker than forget
and the lunch bell rang

leaving me by myself
very happy with myself
and the light streaming in
beneath two lavender curtains

my thoughts leak out loud now
like brine in a vlasic pickle jar
this is the best turkey on rye
oh yeah, great turkey on rye

stop right there, old macfarlin yells
at some schmuck who wants to fight them all
oh, don’t we all? on the grass outside
the high school cafeteria–well damn!

it was a mighty good sammich
the mightiest of all sandwiches
i ate today in the company of
ed, chuck, and walt in room 304



  1. Ah, Bukowski: always cursing. But even his obscenities sound poetic.

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