2 p.m. beer

by Charles Bukowski

 

nothing matters
but flopping on a mattress

with cheap dreams and a beer

 

as the leaves die and the horses die

and the landladies stare in the halls;
brisk the music of pulled shades, 

 

a last man's cave
in an eternity of swarm
and explosion;

nothing but the dripping sink,
the empty bottle,
euphoria,

youth fenced in,
stabbed and shaven,

taught words
propped up
to die.