don’t worry about rejections, pard,
I’ve been rejected
before.
sometimes you make a mistake, taking
the wrong poem
more often I make the mistake, writing
it.
but I like a mount in every race
even though the man
who puts up the morning line
tabs it 30 to one.
I get to thinking about death more and
more
senility
crutches
armchairs
writing purple poetry with a
dripping pen
when the young girls with mouths
like barracudas
bodies like lemon trees
bodies like clouds
bodies like flashes of lightning
stop knocking on my door.
don’t worry about rejections, pard.
I have smoked 25 cigarettes tonight
and you know about the beer.
the phone has only rung once:
wrong number.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
