cloud 9

he’s really not a bad sort
but when I’m in the lowest and darkest of
pits
he always phones, and in a most cheerful
voice he’ll ask:
“how ya doin’, buddy?”
and I’ll have the same answer for
him:
“I’m fucked, can’t find my way out.”
“oh, that’s too bad.   I’m on cloud 9.   need
somebody to drink with?”
“no, it’s all right.”
“well, remember my number, buddy.   give me a call
sometime.”
“sure.”
I hang up and look at the phone.
it’s light green.

if I can ever figure when that son of a bitch
comes down off his speed
I’ll dump him straight into his
coffin.

Like this website? Support it.
I want to bring all of Bukowski's poems online and make then freely available. This means hundreds of hours of work to retype over 1,000 of his poems from the original manuscripts. Your donations will help support this work.