Beans With Garlic

this is important enough:
to get your feelings down;
it is better than shaving
or cooking beans with garlic—
it is the little we can do:
this small bravery of knowledge;
and there is, of course,
madness and terror too
in that something of you
wound-up like a clock,
never to to wound again
once it stops,
but now
there’s a ticking under
your shirt, and you
whirl the beans with a spoon,
one love dead, one love departed,
almost as many loves as beans,
count them now,
sad, sad,
your feelings boiling over flame,—
get this down,
this Sunday night
alone in an apartment kitchen,
thinking back,
the going of everything:
the dead dogs of now,
kisses under grass that
only a stone and a moon
can see,
boiling flame
fierce beans,
Sunday night of terror

Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: