think of de vils in hell
and stare at a
beautiful vase of
flowers
as the woman in my bedroom
angrily switches the light
on and off.
we have had a very bad
argument
and I sit in here smoking
cigarettes from
India
as on the radio an
opera singer’s prayers are
not in my
language.
outside, the window to
my left reveals the night
lights of the
city and I only wish
had the courage to
break through this simple horror
and make things well
again
but my petty anger
prevents
me.
realize hell is only what we
create,
smoking these cigarettes,
waiting here,
wondering here,
while in the other room
she continues to
sit and
switch the light
on and off,
on and
off.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
