Making love in the sun, in the morning sun <br />in a hotel room <br />above the alley <br />where poor men poke for bottles; <br />making love in the sun <br />making love by a carpet redder than our blood, <br />making love while the boys sell headlines <br />and Cadillacs, <br />making love by a photograph of Paris <br />and an open pack of Chesterfields, <br />making love while other men- poor folks- <br />work. <br />That moment- to this. . . <br />may be years in the way they measure, <br />but it's only one sentence back in my mind- <br />there are so many days <br />when living stops and pulls up and sits <br />and waits like a train on the rails. <br />I pass the hotel at 8 <br />and at 5; there are cats in the alleys <br />and bottles and bums, <br />and I look up at the window and think, <br />I no longer know where you are, <br />and I walk on and wonder where <br />the living goes <br />when it stops.<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/layover/
