the poem didn't come that day

"poems like gunslingers
sit around and
shoot holes in my windows"
-- Charles Bukowski

where were you
when the fallout settled?
where the fuck were you
when the bombs were falling
like withheld mumbled curses
and hurled Molotov cocktails?
where were you
when the world shifted beneath me
the tectonics rearranged and
the planets unaligned
in some kind of hellish syzygy?
where the fuck were you
when all I could see was
the gunmetal river and the amber blur
and the approaching train?

waiting,
I suppose.
waiting for the holes to appear in me
and for language, like liquid,
to pour through me
like a scandal of blood.
letting me marinate in my sorrow,
waiting.
only to come flying out, bulletlike
at the wrong time
in the wrong world
under the fingertips of the wrong girl.

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