I'm looking for Bukowski
in used bookstores
half because I can't stand
the thought of old men
collecting books of poetry
and half because I can't read
anything else
but forty year old inscriptions
in yellowed tomes.
And men cough behind the counters,
surrounded
by 100,000 books, hoping
filthy fingers stay out of Melville
and maybe Stevenson,
greedy to read them again
before bed, the covers messy,
full of bookmarks
and bourbon stains,
they, coughing into mildew
pillowcases and their hands.
And my hands looking for
Bukowski, but finding nothing
instead only Melville
or maybe Stevenson
and the book sellers'
hungry eyes