dailies

Fiscal restraint outweighs the sensual desires of Popeye & me, so the boots will have to wait. Thanks for your comments--it really did help to have your reasoned opinions.

April is National Poetry Month. I'm shooting to post a poem each day, some of my own and some others'. Setting the tone a day early, here's one from Charles Bukowski:

Layover

Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men--poor fools--
work.

That moment--to this...
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind--
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.
[from The Roominghouse Madrigals]