Bukowski
you poor tortured soul
you saw the truth
that life must be simply
endured
the woman doesn't call
the neighbor dies
patience
have a smoke
wait for the settling of things
in the bottom of your
whiskey glass

given enough time
we're all dead
let it sink into you
the worms and the dirt

stretching between the hands of a clock
eternity and oblivion
turn on the tv and shut it off again
let boredom arrest you
breathing on your neck

the moments between you
and the last woman
you had
felt and unfelt

another will be along for you
or you will be dead