Silverlake
(after Charles Bukowski)
The cigarette papers have run out
and the store will be closed by now
so I’m doodling on an old wooden board.
There’s beer in the fridge, and nuts in a bowl;
the oranges and lemons are ripening
out in the back yard.
The hot faucet makes a hullabaloo
and we haven’t got around to fixing it;
at night the coyotes howl down at the reservoir.
Linda’s gone off to Idaho – again.
God, I miss her! Even
the rows and her goddamn nagging.
My mattress lies inside the door.
We’re on Hollywood’s doorstep -
I like it here.
