Mr. Bukowski, please

Its not every night of the week
I put on a nice dress and fix my hair
and walk across the street
to the only bar in town I'll go
where the people are somewhat decent
at least in affording their overpriced beer.

Sitting alone with Bukowski
I'm the only one at the bar under 30
the only one with blonde hair
the only one with a glass of shiraz
the only one with a book
the only one cross-legged
the only one alive
wondering
what the hell I am doing here.

As long as I don't make eye contact
I know I can avoid at least
ten or more of the opposite sex
imagining me naked
imagining they could ever
get anywhere with me.

Normal people all around
playing pool, laughing, drinking
talking, arguing, breathing
and the only person I talk to
is the dead, old, alcoholic poet
as he silently reads his stories
of whores, An Empire of Coins and Jane.

This isn't how pretty girls are supposed
to spend their saturday evenings.
And I'm too damn pretty to be respected
or else he would have called to
tell me he wasn't coming
instead of sitting here alone
foolishly thinking
I need anyone more
than the old rotting words
of Mr. Bukowski.