Bukowski

At the topless club
a girl offers him a free lap dance
because she says he resembles her grandfather.

His Edgar Allan Poe mustache
brushes her breasts
with the hard smell of liquor.

Her belly
a flat antithesis
to the real roundness of women.

He heard his heart
telling a tale
his conscience thankfully ignored.

On the taxi ride home
the scent of her thighs still twisted and wriggled
as if it was stuck to his zipper.