(this is my rip on Bukowski's "quiet, clean girls in gingham dresses..."
a piece of work I loved so much I needed to possess it in some vague way)
(this is not an advertisement for a good man in an old flannel)
(nor is it my general sentiment toward men)
Good Men in Old Flannels
All I’ve ever known are lowlives, depraved degenerates, scumbags.
I see women with gentle men, kind men, men who stop the world to look at them.
I see them in town, having coffee.
I see them at farmer’s markets, holding hands, giggling at some fantastic joke that exists only between them.
I see them existing together in peace. In light. In harmony.
All I’ve ever known are lowlives—junkies, alcoholics, depraved degenerates, scumbags.
When I kick one to the curb, another arrives, baggage packed, ready to move in.
I see so many women with kind, gentle men in old flannels.
Men who do not run with wolves.
Men with hearts that are not selfish or predatory.
“Don’t ever bring a vagrant or a troubadour around,” I tell my friends. “I’ll fall irrevocably in love.”
“You couldn’t stand a good man, Hooker.”
I need a good man. I need a good man more than I need the six pairs of shoes I just added to my cart.
I need him so badly I can taste him against my lips.
I can feel his stubble, rough, beneath my fingertips.
I can feel his skin against mine.
I can see him lying across my bed.
I can see him scratching my dog.
I can see his old flannel hanging by my door.
Does he exist?
The degenerates keep finding me.