Heroes

The Goths are perched like crows
On the steps of Town Hall, their
Beady eyes staring-out the passers-by.
I shuffle past, feeling naked all-of-a-sudden,
My sword-hand tucked firmly into my jacket
Pocket: ever-ready to draw.

I seek refuge in the library,
Though it gives me no power. Take down
A book by Bukowski, hoping that
Someone will see me, nod their approval.
And I feel a little like Chinaski, Bandini,
Knowing full-well that I will never be:

I will never feel life the way that Fante did,
Nor get laid as many times as Bukowski did.

(or said he did)