the fix

putting on a clean pair of underwear
and thinking,
I am not in jail and I don’t have a
toothache.
and there are probably a few people
who would like to murder you
but they probably won’t do
it.
and you once decided to be buried
near Hollywood Park
so you can hear the hooves going by
as you sleep
but lately they’ve spoken about
moving the park elsewhere
maybe the neighborhood has gotten
too black for those,
so now I must live longer
until I learn where they
relocate.
put on your shirt and pants
you are being taught in some
contemporary literature courses
and you fart as you walk down
the stairway.
great thoughts are like great
hangovers: you feel better
without them.
open the door and look out
to see if your car has been
stolen.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1979
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: