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.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1974
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: