the pack

this summer night, this hot summer night
the dogs of hell work at me
they work at the gut
pulling out chunks
they never get full
pounce back for more and more…

even now as I go to the bathroom to piss
they follow, my little pets don’t want me
to be alone.

the dogs of hell, my friend, will find
you too
maybe after they tire a while
of the taste of me.

you’ll know it when they arrive.
but not why or for how long.
well, maybe why…
but that’s no help
you just have to wait them out
if possible.

this hot summer night
I think it’s possible:
they’re down to the bone and chipping
their teeth

getting ready to leave
as I stare into my drink
light another cigarette

maybe next time
they’ll finish the

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript