The Bird
red-eyed and dizzy as I
the bird came flying
all the way from Egypt
at 5 o’clock in the morning,
and Maria almost stumbled on her spikes:
what was it, a rocket?
and we went upstairs.
I poured two glasses of port
and we sat there as the money-grubbers
were belled out of their miserable nests
and Maria went in and watered
the bowl
and I sat there rubbing my three-day beard
thinking about the crazy bird
and it came out like this:
all that really mattered was
going someplace
the faster the better
because it left less waiting
to die. Maria came out
and peeled back the covers
and I tore off my greasy clothes
and crawled beneath the sweaty sheets,
closing my eyes to the sound and the sunlight,
and I heard her drop her spiked feet
and her frozen toes walked the backs of my calves
and I named the bird
Mr. America
and then quickly I went to sleep.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
