Charles Bukowski

pacific telephone

you go for these wenches, she said,
you go for these whores,
I’ll bore you.
 
I don’t want to be shit on anymore,
I said,
relax.
 
when I drink, she said, it hurts my
bladder, it burns.
 
I’ll do the drinking, I said.
 
you’re waiting for the phone to ring,
she said,
you keep looking at the phone.
if one of those wenches phones you’ll
run right out of here.
 
I can’t promise you anything, I said.
 
then—just like that—the phone rang.
 
this is Madge, said the phone. I’ve
got to see you right away.
 
oh, I said.
 
I’m in a jam, she continued, I need ten
bucks—fast.
 
I’ll be right over, I said, and
hung up.
 
she looked at me. it was a wench,
she said, your whole face lit up.
what the hell’s the matter with
you?
 
listen, I said, I’ve got to leave.
you stay here. I’ll be right back.
 
I’m going, she said. I love you but you’re
crazy, you’re doomed.
 
she got her purse and slammed the door.
 
it’s probably some deeply-rooted childhood fuckup
that makes me vulnerable, I thought.
 
then I left my place and got into my volks.
I drove north up Western with the radio on.
there were whores walking up and down
both sides of the street and Madge looked
more vicious than any of them.
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