"Champagne Problem" – Bukowski Style

the bottle is empty.
so are you.
so am i.

the train rattles past midnight
and your name is just another bad decision
i won’t be making again.

you sat there,
pretty as a postcard i’d never send,
thinking love was something
i’d fold up and tuck into my back pocket.

you wanted a ring.
i wanted another drink.

so you left,
took your suitcase,
left the keys in the bowl,
and the smell of your perfume
hung around like an unpaid tab.

what was it you called it?
a champagne problem?
nah—
that’s just a rich man’s way of saying
life goes to hell,
but at least the bubbles are still cold.

 you came out screaming

red-faced, fists like the smallest fury

and I knew from then—

you were a force.

now you're eight,

with your hair tangled from sleep

and your questions that cut sharper than any man’s knife.

I watch you

chasing shadows in the backyard,

barefoot, wild—

like you own the sun.

the world will try to quiet you,

box you in with soft pink ribbons

and rules meant to break your spirit.

but I see how you already fight,

a small warrior,

not even knowing it yet.

you ask me why the moon follows us home

and I don't have the heart to tell you—

it's because you're the only thing worth following.

my life—

whatever I've built or broken—

has been a long road to you.

I won't always have the answers,

won't always be the hero you see now.

but I'll be the shore

you come back to,

when the waves of this world

try to carry you too far out.

you are the best poem

I never wrote,

the only story

that doesn't need fixing.

go on, little light—

burn.