this is just a long call
from a short space.
it doesn’t engender up
any special brilliance
to know that
we are going wrong again.
we laugh less and less,
become more sane.
all we want is
the absence of others.
even the classical music
has been heard too often,
the good books have been
we suspect again
as we did in the beginning
that we are
odd, deformed, fit
nowhere here…
as we write this
there is an ugly buzzing
something lands in our
becomes imbedded there.
we reach up
yank it free
as it bites our finger.
what damned nonentity
is this
in the middle of
the night?
it’s gone…

there is a sliding
glass door
and we see outside
a white Manx sitting there
with one cross-eye.
his tongue sticks out
we pull the door open
and he slides in
front legs running
in one direction,
in the other.

he makes it toward us
in a scurvy angle
runs up our legs
our chest
places front legs
like arms
near our shoulders
sticks his snout
quite near our nose
and looks at us
best he can;
also befuddled,
we look back.

some night,
old boy,
some time,
some way.
stuck together

we smile again
like we used to.
suddenly the Manx
leaps away
scattering across the
rug sideways
chasing something
that none of us
can see.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: