Charles Bukowski

first poem back

64 days and nights in that
place, chemotherapy,
antibiotics, blood running into
the catheter.
leukemia.
who, me?
at age 72 I had this foolish thought that
I’d just die peacefully in my sleep
but
the gods want it their way.
sit at this machine, shattered,
half alive,
still seeking the Muse,
but I am back for the moment only;
while nothing seems the same.
am not reborn, only
chasing
few more days, a few more nights,
like
this
one.
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