This week's (belated) feature poem is by a resident of the Phoenix area and considers himself "Bukowski 2"--whatever you choose to make of that is your deal; I choose to enjoy it for what it is and giggle politely at what it is not.
Bad cockfight in Tijuana
Several pot-bellied cowboys stand over the dead body of a fighting cock
I had 50 dollars on.
A few laugh while others count their winnings.
The owner of the bird removes the steel spurs
and hands it to the winning team as a prize
then walks off.
the scene empties with the last of the spectators
hitting the bar for shots of mezcal.
I'm left alone staring
at a once tough
champion with an eye missing.
The wind mockingly plays
with his raised feathers
and covers his wounds
with the dust of the street.
The blood dries quickly
but the memory of his failure is fresh
in my empty pockets.
I thought we both would make it today.
But it was luck,
And they all leave
with whatever you gave them.
dead with a snapped neck
lost in Tijuana
with no bus ticket home.