Retirement

I once thought a man was not a man

who did not smoke cigarettes to nubs,

drink late,

and espouse Charles Bukowski.

I girled-up, though, and quit smoking

and I worked.

My legs hurt.  My Back.

But up went the airport terminal,

the hydroelectric plant, towers on bald hills,

garish houses, workshops.

I armored-up, edged my sword,

marched against my own better judgement,

marched against my own leisure.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I thrust my leave-taking letter

through a mailbox slot,

and imagined plunging my sword into the hard belly of a dragon.

My sword sharp and brilliantly white.

To hell that dragon.

To hell you hot bastard.

-- Mitchell Hegman

NOTE: The above writing is what happens if you drink coffee and think about Bukowski the morning after dropping an application for retirement benefits in the mail.