sick with the flu
drinking beer
my radio on loud
enough to overcome
the sounds of the
stereo people who
have just moved
into the court
across the way.
asleep or awake
they play their
set at top volume
leaving their
doors and windows
open.
they are each
18, married, wear
red shoes,
are blonde,
slim.
they play
everything: jazz,
classical, rock,
country, modern
as long as it is
loud.
this is the problem
of being poor:
we must share each
other’s sounds.
last week it was
my turn:
there were two women
in here
fighting each other
and then they
ran up the walk
screaming.
the police came.
now it’s their
turn.
now I am walking
up and down in
my dirty shorts,
two rubber earplugs
stuck deep into
my ears.
I even consider
murder.
such rude little
rabbits!
walking little pieces
of snot!
but in our land
and in our way
there has never
been a chance;
it’s only when
things are not
going too badly
for a while
that we forget.
someday they’ll
each be dead
someday they’ll
each have a
separate coffin
and it will be
quiet.
but right now
it’s Bob Dylan
Bob Dylan Bob
Dylan all the
way.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
