sometimes, all we need

to be able to continue alone
are the dead, rattling

the walls that close us in,

he says it like it's a good thing,

like Aunt Dorothy strapped to a bed

on the fourth floor pavilion west

is going to make us stronger

when she goes. it's not.

no one is ever stronger after losing

love, and the only rattling we know

is dry air rasping in the ventilator and

the rosary tinkling against the bed rails

where it hangs, taunting, turning--

and i know i could say, fuck you, bukowski,

you're a liar, but he'd just smile hacking

yellow teeth and hangover whiskers,

coughing and say, I know.