sitting on a 2nd-floor porch at 1:30 a.m.
while
looking out over the city.
could be worse.
we needn’t accomplish great things, we only
need to accomplish little things that make us feel
better or
not so bad.
of course, sometimes the fates will
not allow us to do
this.
then, we must outwit the fates.
we must be patient with the gods.
they like to have fun,
they like to play with us.
they like to test us.
they like to tell us that we are weak
and stupid, that we are
finished.
the gods need to be amused.
we are their toys.
as I sit on the porch a bird begins
to serenade me from a tree nearby in
the dark.
is a mockingbird.
am in love with mockingbirds.
make bird sounds.
he waits.
then he makes them back.
he is so good that I laugh.
we are all so easily pleased,
all of us living things.
now a slight drizzle begins to
fall.
little chill drops fall on my
hot skin.
am half asleep.
sit in a folding chair with my
feet up on the railing
as the mockingbird begins
to repeat every bird song
he has heard that
day.
this is what we old guys do
for amusement
on Saturday
nights:
we laugh at the gods, we
settle old scores with
them,
we rejuvenate
as the lights of the city
blink below,
as the dark tree
holding the mockingbird
watches over us,
and as the world,
from here,
looks as good as it ever
will.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
