To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room. 
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers... 
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes. 
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 3177 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Charles Bukowski
Poem: Poem For My 43rd Birthday
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