1:08

It's 1:08
in the early Monday morning
and I can see the raccoons
behind the cigar smoke
one by one
on their way to my trash can
that I'm sure is laying wide open
like a fruitful cornucopia
from the strong storm
some hours before.

I finish the fourth beer
and feel a sense of relief
that perhaps
I finished something I started today.

Buzzed,
and Bukowski's breath grips me tight
and he digs his fingernails
deep into my skull
and I just can't bring myself
to fall asleep,
deceiving myself into believing
the prolonging of rest will
stand time still.

Then I begin to realize
I haven't finished anything
at all.

I think I'll have
another beer.