I knocked on heaven's door.
"Hello, is Charles in. Charles Bukowski."
Slowly, the door opened and out popped Bukowski's head, his pock-marked skin nearly clear.
"What do you want, Tortelli?"
"I wanna know if you wanna come out and play. We can throw the pigskin around. Shoot some hoops. Play some street hockey. Go down to Kelly Field and play ball. You can pitch."
"Nah," Bukowski answered. "God wont let me. He says I've been bad. Better get back to earth and blog some more."
The door shut. I came back home like an empty hearted kid.
Poetry Pantry #392
2 hours ago