gods

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bernard s. barnes

Tom Waits growls and wails from the living room stereo
I crack a fresh beer and join her on the bed
a freshly-bought anthology of early Bukowski poems sits on the desk
read me something, she says
I read her poetry and drink beer
as she listens with eyes closed
her mouth held in a grin of contentment
I finish a poem and close the book
resting my head back on her thigh
she sighs deeply
I can’t remember, she says, the last time I’ve been this happy
neither can I
is this not Heaven?
are we not gods?

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