imagination and reality
there are many single women in the world
with one or two or three children
and one wonders where the husbands
have gone or where the lovers have
gone
leaving behind
all those hands and eyes and feet
and voices.
as I pass through their homes
I like opening cupboards and
looking in
or under the sink
or in a closet—
I expect to find the husband
or lover and he’ll tell me:
“hey, buddy, didn’t you notice her
stretch-marks, she’s got stretch-marks
and floppy tits and she eats
onions all the time and farts... but
I’m a handy man. I can fix things,
I know how to use a turret-lathe and
I make my own oil changes. I can shoot
pool, bowl, and I can finish 5th or
6th in any cross-country marathon
anywhere. I’ve got a set of golf
clubs, can shoot in the 80’s. I know
where the clit is and what to do about
it. I’ve got a cowboy hat with the brim
turned straight up at the sides.
I’m good with the lasso and the dukes
and I know all the latest dance steps.”
and I’ll say, “look, I was just leaving.”
and I will leave before he can challenge me
to arm-wrestling
or tell a dirty joke
or show me the dancing tattoo on his
right bicep.
but really
all I find in the cupboards are
coffee cups and large cracked brown plates
and under the sink a stack of hardened
rags, and in the closet—more coathangers
than clothes, and it’s not until she shows
me the photo album and the photos of him—
nice enough like a shoehorn, or a cart in
the supermarket whose wheels aren’t stuck—
that the self-doubt leaves, and the
pages turn and there’s one child on a
swing wearing a red outfit and there’s
the other one
chasing a seagull in Santa Monica.
and life becomes sad and not dangerous
and therefore good enough:
to have her bring you a cup of coffee in
one of those coffee cups without him
jumping out.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
