poor night

I think I’m in the first dry
period of my life.
nearing 62
one considers senility.
there’s an end to the
luck.

I drink two glasses of wine and
stare at the white page.
it has always come so easily.
I have always laughed at writers who
claimed that creation was painful.

I change stations of the radio,
pour another wine.

“papa,” she opens the door, “do you
have any book matches?”

“sure,” I say and hand her a couple.

she leaves.

Henry Miller is dead.
Saroyan.
Nelson Algren.

they’ve been dead for some
time.

“papa,” she walks back into the room,
“this pen is terrible, do you have a
good pen?”

“sure,” I say and hand her a
good pen.

“there is so much smoke in this room,”
she opens a window, “you should let some of
the smoke out.”

“you’re right,” I say.

she leaves and I have my blank page
again…

(so I put this down to fill it
out.)

(then came the decision whether to tear or
to save.)

(as you can see
I’ve done the wrong thing.)

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1981
Source
Original manuscript