figs

I bought a newspaper
and read about
the problems of
Joe Namath and Henry
Kissinger.

she came out
carrying a
white dishpan
full of figs.

“sorry I took so long,”
she said, “but this blind
man came up to me and he
wanted to buy a funnel.
we had a terrible time
finding the funnel
section.   then he wanted
to know if the one
we had selected
was properly priced.”

“o.k.” I said, and
we drove on in.   but
as we did
I noticed that
the nipples of her breasts
were hard and
poking through her
orange blouse.

she’d gone in because
we were out of
Borax.

a midget sitting on an
apple box
took a sharp left
in front of me
in a dark brown
Maverick.

better, I thought,
to be out of Borax
than ass-
wipe.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1975
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: