sick

I had this night job and I'd sit in bed

looking out the window in the late afternoon

the last of the sun filtering into the room

through the green leaves and branches of a large green bush

and when I thought about what was out there

waiting, I'd reach for the telephone.

the office clerk knew my voice:

"yes, Bukowski, what is it this time?"

"just write something down," I'd tell him,

"common cold, flu, the clap..."

I'd hang up.

it was good watching it slowly get dark

listening to people coming home

parking their cars, turning on their tv's

making kitchen sounds, talking.

then I'd get up and drink for three or four hours

alone,

then go back to bed and sleep.

and the next night at the factory everybody

would seem very small and wrinkled

and I'd walk in tall and shining

eyes calm and cool

secretly assured;

the men didn't understand and the girls

all loved me, and the foreman would come forward

to speak to me of absenteeism

as I took out a cigarette, lit it and

listened.

Charles Bukowski