he buys 5 cars a month, details them, waxes and buffs
them out, then
resells them at a profit of one or two grand.
he has a nice Jewish wife and he tells me that he
bangs her until the walls shake.
he wears a red cap, squints in the light, has a regular
job besides the car gig.
have no idea of what he is trying to accomplish and maybe he
doesn’t either.
he’s a nicer fellow than most, always good to see him,
we laugh, say a few bright lines.
but
each time
after I see him
get the blues for him, for me, for all of us:
for want of something to do
we keep slaying our small dragons
as the big one waits.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
