Life of a poet

Our sub-editor, Reggie, sent me this grubby poem. He finds it depressing but I like it.

Poem For My 43rd Birthday
Charles Bukowski

To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine–
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
…in the morning
they’re out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers…
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.

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About

Robert Wringham is a humorist and the editor-in-chief of New Escapologist.

One Response to “Life of a poet”

  1. Maus says:

    I’m with you. Thanks for sharing this enjoyable poem. It captures exactly that moment when streaming sunlight has awakened me, but I’m not ready to spring out of bed and face the day. Like a lizard sunning on the stone wall, I’m not yet intrigued by the day’s possibilities that might buzz within reach of my tongue or tormented by the contingencies of work that might yank at my tail.

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