bukowski.


at 3:30 a.m. in the morning
a door opens
and feet come down the hall
moving a body,
and there is a knock
and you put down your beer
and answer.

god damn it, she says,
dont’ you ever sleep?

and she walks in
her hair in curlers
and herself in a silk robe
covered with rabbits and birds

and she has brought her own bottle
to which you splendidly add
2 glasses;
her husband, she says, is in Florida
and the sister sends her money and dresses and she has been looking for a job
for 32 days.

you tell her
you are a jockey’s agent and a
writer of jazz and love songs,
and after a couple of drinks
she doesn’t bother to cover
her legs
with the edge of the robe
that keeps falling away.

they are not bad legs at all,
in fact, very good legs,
and soon your are kissing a
head full of curlers.

and the rabbits are beginning
to wink, and Florida is a long way
away, and she says we are not strangers
really because shes has seem me
in the hall.

and finally
there is very little
to say.

(3:30 A.M. Conversation)

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