they’d come around and
they’d ask
“you finished your
2nd novel yet?”
“no.”
“whatsamatta? whatsamatta
that you can’t
finish it?”
“hemorrhoids and
insomnia.”
“maybe you’ve lost
it?”
“lost what?”
“you know.”
now when they come
around I tell them,
“yeh. I finished
it. be out in Sept.”
“you finished it?”
“yeh.”
“well, listen, I gotta
go.”
even the cat
here in the courtyard
won’t come to my door
anymore.
it’s nice.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
