the drifting of the mind.
the slow loss, the leaking away.
one’s demise is not very interesting.
from my bed I watch 3 birds through the east window:
one coal black, one dark brown, the
other yellow.
as night falls I watch the red lights on the bridge blink on and off.
am stretched out in bed with the covers up to my chin.
have no idea who won at the racetrack today.
must go back into the hospital tomorrow.
why me?
why not?
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
