the girls were young
and worked the
streets
but often couldn’t
score, they
ended up
in my hotel
room
or 4 of
them
sucking at the
wine,
hair in face,
runs in
stockings,
cursing, telling
stories...
somehow
those were
peaceful
nights
but really
they reminded me
of long
ago
when I was a
boy
watching my grandmother’s
canaries make
droppings
into their
seed
and into their
water
and the
canaries were
beautiful
and
chattered
but
never
sang.
Liked or faved by...
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
