The Bus And Bukowski Poem by Not Long Left
The Bus And Bukowski
with rain,
tapping on my head,
and wind,
whipping my face,
the day is washed away.
As the bus,
bullies it way through,
the traffic,
it pulls into my stop,
the wind from it's heavy movement,
snatches the pages from my hands,
Bukowski's bold printed,
words scattered like leaves,
upon the street.
ruturned to the source,
of there inspiration
Nice poem vincent. But read this poem again and correct some minor spelling errors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 1:48:14 PM # 1.0.0.1119
eh, not a bad effort, Vincent. but ol' Bukowski is dead. Jake