Some Phone Calls at Night
 

So he calls me after twelve years
to say he's dry, living a good life.
He was a drunk who bedded
all the pretty girls in class.

I remember one night at his apartment
drinking a six pack or two— 
he far gone before I arrived.
His girlfriend kept serving up cold ones.
A beauty who dropped out of Smith,
got a job as a temp to pay rent
and keep him in beer.  He picks up
the phone, dials Los Angeles information,
gets Bukowski's number.
He calls and the old bastard answers.
I don't understand what's said,
but there's a lot of slobber on the phone.

He calls me now,
and tells me he's clean.
I hang up and wonder
what his old girlfriend is doing,
if she can still pay rent,
hold a six pack in each hand.