Brewed and Filled by . . .

everything
in my beercan hand
is sad,
the dirt is even
sad
under my fingernails,
and this hand
is like the hand of a
machine
and yet
it is not—
it curves itself completely
(an effort containing magic)
around the beercan
in a movement the same as
roots
pounding a gladiola
up into the sun of air,
and the beer
goes into me.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1964
This poem appeared in the following books: