a real thing, a good woman

they are always writing about
    the bulls, the bullfighters,
those who have never seen
    them,
and as I break the webs of the
    spiders reaching for my wine
the umhum of bombers, gd. dmn
    hum breaking the solace,
and I must write a letter to my
    priest about some 3rd. st.
    whore
who keeps calling me up at 3 in
    the morning;
up the old stairs, ass full of
    splinters,
thinking of pocket-book poets
    and the priest,
and I’m over the typewriter like
    a washing machine,
and look look the bulls are still
    dying
and they are razing them
    raising them
like wheat in the fields,
and the sun’s black as ink,
    black ink that is,
and my wife says Brock, for
    Christ’s sake,
the typewriter all night,
how can I sleep? and I crawl
    into bed and
kiss her hair    sorry sorry sorry
sometimes I get excited    I don’t
    know why
friend of mine said he was
    going to write about
Manolete . . .
who’s that?    nobody, kid,
    somebody dead
like Chopin or our old mailman
    or a dog,
go to sleep, go to sleep,
and I kiss her and rub her
    head,
a good woman,
and soon she sleeps and I wait
for morning.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1961
This poem appeared in the following books: