have we gone wrong again?
we laugh less and less,
become more sadly sane.
all we want is
the absence of others.
even favorite classical music
has been heard too often and
all the good books have been
read...
there is a sliding
glass door
and there outside
white Manx sits
with one crossed eye
his tongue sticks out the
corner of his mouth.
lean over
and pull the door open
and he comes running in
front legs working
in one direction,
rear legs
in the other.
he circles the
room in a scurvy angle
to where I sit
claws up my legs
my chest
places front legs
like arms
on my shoulders
sticks his snout
against my nose
and looks at me as
best he can.
also befuddled,
look back.
better night now,
old boy,
better time,
better way now
stuck together
like this
here.
am able
to smile again
as suddenly
the Manx
leaps away
scattering across the
rug sideways
chasing something now
that none of us
can see.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
