Poem by Henry Charles Bukowski

8 count

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.

one flies
off.
then
another.

one is left,
then
it too
is gone.

my typewriter is
tombstone
still.

and I am
reduced to bird
watching.

just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker.

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

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