the rag.
she sat there, glooming.
I couldn’t do anything with her.
it was raining.
she got up and left.
well, hell, here it is again, I thought
I picked up my drink and turned the radio up,
took the lampshade off the lamp
and smoked a cheap black bitter cigar
imported from Germany.
there was a knock on the door
and I opened the door
a little man stood in the rain
and he said,
have you seen a pigeon on your porch?
I told him I hadn’t seen a pigeon on my porch
and he said if I saw a pigeon on my porch
to let him know.
I closed the door
sat down
and then a black cat leaped through the
window and jumped on my
lap and purred, it was a beautiful animal
and I took it into the kitchen and we both ate a
slice of ham.
then I turned off all the lights
and went to bed
and that black cat went to bed with me
and it purred
and I thought, well, somebody likes me,
then the cat started pissing,
it pissed all over me and all over the sheets,
the piss rolled across my belly and slid down my sides
and I said: hey, what’s wrong with you?
I picked up the cat and walked him to the door
and threw him out into the rain
and I thought, that’s very strange, that cat
pissing on me
his piss was cold as the rain.
then I phoned her
and I said, look, what’s wrong with you? have you lost
your god damned mind?
I hung up and pulled the sheets off the bed
and got in and lay there listening to the rain.
sometimes a man doesn’t know what to do about things
and sometimes it’s best to lie very still
and try not to think at all
about anything.
that cat belonged to somebody
it had a flea collar.
I don’t know about the
woman.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
