Charles Bukowski

the last shot

here we are, once again, the last drink, the last
poem—decades of this splendid luck—another drunken
a.m., and not on the drunktank floor tonight waiting for
the black pimp to get oil the phone so I can put through my         
allowed call (so many of those a.m.s too) it took
me a long time to find the most interesting person to
drink with: myself, like this, now reaching to my left
for the last glass of the Blood of the