on being recognized by Charles Bukowski

the young girl found me at the track,
told me how much she liked my poems, stories,
novels.

when such moments occur
(and they do, at times)
I find it difficult to respond
because one does not walk about thinking,
I am a writer.
in fact, when you’re not writing
you’re not a writer.
one forgets.
and so,
one is never quite ready when
reminded.

so there she was, ” glad you like my stuff,”
I responded without any originality, then
I became worldly and added, “when you see
my books be sure to buy them…”

“oh sure, sure,” she said
her beautiful eyes very close, her body
very close.

“I gotta bet now,” I told
her.

“yes, of course” she
answered.

I walk off thinking about how possibly
thousands of young girls might be reading my books
in their beds.

then as I walk along
I happened to look down
I had been in a hurry to make the first
race: I had on one black shoe and one
brown shoe.

original at last, I thought, hope it lasts
until the next time I see a
typewriter.

I made my bet then went downstairs where
the young girl wouldn’t see
the black shoe and the brown shoe
on the famous
writer.

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