this then—
it’s the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here’s a cock
and here’s a cunt
and here’s trouble.
only each time
you think
well now I’ve learned:
I’ll let her do that
and I’ll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some sex
and only a minor
love.
now I’m waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.
I hope that death contains
less than this.
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
