I suppose it’s raining in some Spanish town now
while I’m feeling bad
like this;
I’d like to think so
now.
let’s go to a Mexican hamlet—
that sounds nice:
a Mexican hamlet
while I’m feeling bad
like this
the walls yellow with age—
that rain
out there,
a pig moving in his pen at night
disturbed by the rain,
little eyes like cigarette-ends,
and his damned tail:
see it?
I can’t imagine the people.
it’s hard for me to imagine the people.
maybe they are feeling bad like this,
almost as bad as this.
I wonder what they do when they feel
bad?
they probably don’t mention it.
they say,
“look, it’s raining.”
that’s the best way.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
