Poem by Henry Charles Bukowski

fuzz

3 small boys run toward me
blowing whistles
and they scream
you're under arrest!
you 're drunk!
and they begin
hitting me on the legs with
their toy clubs.
one even has a
badge, another has
handcuffs but my hands are high in the air.
when I go into the liquor store
they whirl around outside
like bees
shut out from their nest.
I buy a fifth of cheap
whiskey
and
3
   candy bars.

1. decline
2. poetry readings
3. Having the Flu and with Nothing Else to Do
4. Small Conversation in the Afternoon with John Fante
5. Rhyming Poem

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