he sat singing with the mirror

a friend.

he sat singing with the mirror
and his
reflection
looked like a pencil sketch of bukowski
or someone of utmost apparent
wisdom
and this young man toasted his image
and the beer splashed onto the mirror
and dried there in some sort of
necessary cataract.
the mirror
got a little drunk,
ditto the young man,
and so they both extended their outlines
until they appeared to be
scrapped picasso pieces.
but i knew they could never be that well-endowed
(at least,
not the young man).

time died
and the young man looked down and around
and saw the inky sunset behind his double.
he bade farewell to
the mirror,
saying it was getting late,
or some s**t,
and he left.

but his reflection
stayed
and sang
and sobered
until he wanted sex
and went home to his wife,
who had run off
with another
reflection.