washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook <br />out again <br />I write from the bed <br />as I did last <br />year. <br />will see the doctor, <br />Monday. <br />"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head- <br />aches and my back <br />hurts." <br />"are you drinking?" he will ask. <br />"are you getting your <br />exercise, your <br />vitamins?" <br />I think that I am just ill <br />with life, the same stale yet <br />fluctuating <br />factors. <br />even at the track <br />I watch the horses run by <br />and it seems <br />meaningless. <br />I leave early after buying tickets on the <br />remaining races. <br />"taking off?" asks the motel <br />clerk. <br />"yes, it's boring," <br />I tell him. <br />"If you think it's boring <br />out there," he tells me, "you oughta be <br />back here." <br />so here I am <br />propped up against my pillows <br />again <br />just an old guy <br />just an old writer <br />with a yellow <br />notebook. <br />something is <br />walking across the <br />floor <br />toward <br />me. <br />oh, it's just <br />my cat <br />this <br />time.<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/are-you-drinking/
