A Well–Kept Pint of Burton

I’m in a pub
drinking the beer
that got me writing again.

If it was wine,
with its minute–long aftertaste
flowing from bitter to hop flowers,
it’d be worth a bloody fortune.

But, being beer,
it’s two pound forty a pint:
which is pretty outrageous
for a pub outside London.

this poem’s
not about
at all.

I’m thieving from Bukowski,
trying to steal
his honesty,
his “right here, right now” presence,
his oh–so–easy working language
(I wish it was oh–so–easy),

giving something special
from something rather ordinary…

…the beer has it.

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