On Love. Charles Bukowski

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       mine

      She lays like a lump.

      I can feel the great empty mountain

      of her head

      but she is alive. She yawns and

      scratches her nose and

      pulls up the covers.

      Soon I will kiss her goodnight

      and we will sleep.

      And far away is Scotland

      and under the ground the

      gophers run.

      I hear engines in the night

      and through the sky a white

      hand whirls:

      goodnight, dear, goodnight.

layover

      Making love in the sun, in the morning sun

      in a hotel room

      above the alley

      where poor men poke for bottles;

      making love in the sun

      making love by a carpet redder than our blood,

      making love while the boys sell headlines

      and Cadillacs,

      making love by a photograph of Paris

      and an open pack of Chesterfields,

      making love while other men—poor

      fools—

      work.

      That moment—to this . . .

      may be years in the way they measure,

      but it’s only one sentence back in my mind—

      there are so many days

      when living stops and pulls up and sits

      and waits like a train on the rails.

      I pass the hotel at 8

      and at 5; there are cats in the alleys

      and bottles and bums,

      and I look up at the window and think,

      I no longer know where you are,

      and I walk on and wonder where

      the living goes

      when it stops.

the day I kicked a bankroll out the window

      and, I said, you can take your rich aunts and uncles

      and grandfathers and fathers

      and all their lousy oil

      and their seven lakes

      and their wild turkey

      and buffalo

      and the whole state of Texas,

      meaning, your crow-blasts

      and your Saturday night boardwalks,

      and your 2-bit library

      and your crooked councilmen

      and your pansy artists—

      you can take all these

      and your weekly newspaper

      and your famous tornadoes

      and your filthy floods

      and all your yowling cats

      and your subscription to Life,

      and shove them, baby,

      shove them.

      I can handle a pick and ax again (I think)

      and I can pick up

      25 bucks for a 4-rounder (maybe);

      sure, I’m 38

      but a little dye can pinch the gray

      out of my hair;

      and I can still write a poem (sometimes),

      don’t forget that, and even if

      they don’t pay off,

      it’s better than waiting for death and oil,

      and shooting wild turkey,

      and waiting for the world

      to begin.

      all right, bum, she said,

      get out.

      what? I said.

      get out. you’ve thrown your

      last tantrum.

      I’m tired of your damned tantrums:

      you’re always acting like a

      character

      in an O’Neill play.

      but I’m different, baby,

      I can’t help

      it.

      you’re different, all right!

      God, how different!

      don’t slam

      the door

      when you leave.

      but, baby, I love your

      money!

      you never once said

      you loved me!

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