the alcoholic

night lights through a dark tree
while listening to
bad piano music on the radio and
nearing the bottom of the
bottle and
feeling fairly good
deciding to sleep
early
before midnight

already imagining
the body
under blanket and sheet
but
not quite sure
the body won’t go
down that stairway
and come back up with
a new bottle
and type until
3 a.m.

I like being not
quite sure.
I don’t like
being sure.

I’m sure
I like being
not quite
sure.

damn, this is
silly stuff.

I’m sending the
body down
for another bottle,
for sure, and
I like it.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1982
Source
Original manuscript