Charles Bukowski




a cat is a cat is a cat is
a cat

she’s whistling and clapping
for the cats
at 2 a.m.
as I sit in here
with my
Beethoven.

‘they’re just prowling,” I
tell her…

Beethoven rattles his bones
majestically

and those damn cats
don’t care
about
any of it

and
if they did
I wouldn’t like them
as
well:

things begin to lose their
natural value
when they approach
human 
endeavor.

nothing against
Beethoven:
he did fine
for what he was

but I wouldn’t want
him
on my rug
with one leg
over his head
while
he was
licking
his balls.