don’t call me, I’ll call you

once more
the typing is about
finished

papers scatter the
floor

this smokey room

radio blaring the
symphony of a
dead
man

the bottle
looking at me
from my
left

it is late
night
moving
into
morning

I have lived
the lucky
hours

then the
phone
rings

son of a
bitch:
impossible!

but my wife
will get
the
phone

perhaps
it’s for
her

it’s can’t be
for
me

I’d kill

anybody
who would
spoil
this

that the gods
have sent
this old
fellow

once
again

as the dark
times
snake
outside

as death
is a monkey
in a
cage

as I rise
to move
to the
bathroom
to
piss in
wonderment.