A not-quite ghazal about John Thompson

I dreamt about Stilt Jack for years before I read it,
a Pnin crossed with a more forthright Bukowski.

Dreamt of a large Hunter-S.-Thompson breakfast,
with John– a man midst booze, fidelity.

I smiled just once, when he rhymed “too” and “kangaroo”,
this man, midst booze, responsibility.