sitting in a sandwich joint
my daughter is most
glorious.
we are eating a takeout
snack in my car
in Santa Monica.
I say, “hey, kid,
my life has been
good, so good.”
she looks at me.
I put my head down
on the steering wheel,
shudder, then I
kick the door open,
put on a mock-puke.
I straighten up.
she laughs
biting into her
sandwich.
I pick up four
french fries
put them into my mouth,
chew them.
it’s 5:30 p.m.
and the cars run up
and down past us.
I sneak a look:
we’ve got all the
luck we need:
her eyes are brilliant with the
remainder of the
day, and she’s
grinning.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
