Romanticized

A heavy woman

with heavier eyes

stares attentively at the endless array

of romance novels

while I peek up over the cover

of a Bukowski book

after reading another poem

about his many whores.

We're all lonely, aren't we?

I wish I had money for a whore

but I don't even have money for this book

so I’ve just been sitting here, reading it

for an hour or so

and people watching between each

shoplifted poem.

“Hey kid, buy the book or leave!”

*Sigh*

so without saying a word

I nod politely

and get up to put the book back

but head towards the childrens section instead

and set it on a shelf

in front of fairy tales with sparkly covers

and leave it open,

pages spread like the legs of a used up slut

with a beautiful soul.

On my way out

I notice that the woman has left,

gone home to lay in bed naked

with fantasies of Fabio

or some other long-haired douche

with a disguising accent...

And now I'm going home too

to get drunk

pop a couple xanax

and write this shit

like the stereotypical poet I am.

What romantic fucking lives we all life.