around 2 a.m.
in my small room
after turning off the poem
machine
for now
continue to light
cigarettes and listen to
Beethoven on the
radio.
listen with a
strange and lazy
aplomb,
knowing there’s still a poem
or two left to write, and
feel damn
fine, at long
last,
as once again I
admire the verve and gamble
of this composer
now dead for over 100
years,
who’s younger and wilder
than you are
than I am.
the centuries are sprinkled
with rare magic
with divine creatures
who help us get past the common
and
extraordinary ills
that beset us.
light the next to last
cigarette
remember all the 2 a.m.s
of my past,
put out of the bars
at closing time,
put out on the streets
a ragged band of
solitary lonely
humans
we were)
each walking home
alone.
this is much better: living
where I now
live
and listening to
the reassurance
the kindness
of this unexpected
SYMPHONY OF TRIUMPH:
new life.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
