Charles Bukowski

what am I doing?

got to stop battling these wild speed jocks on the freeway as
roar through hairline openings with stereo blasting through
noon and evening and darkness
when actually all we want is to sit in cool green gardens
talking quietly over drinks.
what makes us this way?—ingrown toenails?—or that the ladies
are not enough?—what foolishness makes us tweak the nose of
are we afraid of the slow bedpan?—or slobbering over half-
cooked peas brought to us by a bored nurse with thick
dumb legs?
what wanton hare-brained impulse makes us floor it with
only one hand on the wheel?
don’t we realize the peace of aging
what hell-call is this to war?

we are the sickest of the breed—as fine museums—great art—
generations of knowledge— are all forgotten
as we find profundity in being an
we are going to end up as a
photograph—almost life-sized—hanging
as a warning on the
Traffic Court wall.

and people will shudder just a bit and
look the other way

knowing that
too much ego is not