sitting with the drunks

sitting with the drunks, being one of the drunks as
night becomes morning, as the bottles empty and the
ashtrays fill, the drunks become more and more
separate, each talking to be heard but listening
badly or not
at all.
some are more unkind, cantankerous, loud, louder than
the others.
some dribble spittle, become bleary-eyed and mentally

the drunks become tired, the drunks become tiresome.
some leave, others bed down as guests for the

as always my wife and I are the last ones.

the amateurs have vanished.

we check the clock, decide how much longer and how much
more we will drink

as the cats return to the house, take their favorite chairs
and nooks.

people drink badly, act badly

the great    silence of their absence as most of the city

we search for the lone cigarette lighter

pour to the luck and the languor, the languor and the
luck, the languorous

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript