Poem by Henry Charles Bukowski

luck

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking
smoking
typing
it was a most
splendid
miraculous
time
still
is
only now
instead of
moving toward
time
it
moves toward
us
makes each word
drill
into the
paper
clear
fast
hard
feeding a
closing
space.

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

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