Christmas eve, alone
Christmas eve, alone,
in a motel room
down the coast
near the Pacific—
hear it?
they’ve tried to do this place up
Spanish, there’s
tapestry and lamps, and
the toilet’s clean, there are
tiny bars of pink
soap.
they won’t find us
here:
the barracudas or the ladies
or the idol
worshippers.
back in town
they’re drunk and panicked
running red lights
breaking their heads open
in honor of Christ’s
birthday. that’s nice.
soon I’ll finish this 5th
of Puerto Rican rum.
in the morning I’ll vomit and
shower, drive back
in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,
be back in my room by
2,
stretched on the bed,
waiting for the phone to ring,
not answering,
my holiday is an
evasion, my reasoning
is not.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
