Waste Basket

spoor and anaemia and deviltry
and what can we make of this?:
a belly in the trash . . .
down by Mr. Saunders beer cans
curled up like a cat;
life can be no less ludicrous
than rain
and as I take the lift
up to 3
I pass Mrs. Swanson
in the grate
powdered and really dead
but walking on
buying sweets and fats
and mailing Christmas cards;
and opening the door to my room
bottles fall
a fat damsel scrambles my vision
and a voice says
why are all your poems
personal?

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1964
This poem appeared in the following books: