lousy day

after the races I would often end up with a
high yellow or a crazy white in some motel
room
but now I’m 70 and I have to get up four times
a night to piss
and about the only thing that bothers me is
freeway traffic.
today I dropped $110.00 at the track and when
I tried to re-enter the freeway
some guy in a red model car almost ran me
off the edge. (red automobiles have always
bothered me) and I swung after him, rode his
bumper, then I swung around and rode side by
side
looking over at him, he was a slight young
guy, looked like a cost accountant, I ran
my window down and screamed at him while
honking, I informed him that he was a piece
of subnormal dung but he just stared straight
ahead and I hit the gas and left him
there and my next thought was, wonder if I
should tell my wife about this?
and then quickly a voice answered from
somewhere, don’t be a sucker, pal, she’ll
just turn it against you:

“oh, hahaha!   he probably didn’t even notice
you were there!”

if a man lives for 70 years he might learn
one or two things–one being:   don’t confide
in your wife.
the other being:    nobody will ever quite
understand you but
all and any of them will understand you
better than your
wife.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1990
Source
Original manuscript