Charles Bukowski


Not much chance, Completely cut loose from purpose, He was a young man riding a bus Through North Carolina on the way to somewhere, And it began to snow, And the bus stopped at a little cafe in the hills, And the passengers entered. He sat at the counter with the others, He ordered, and the food arrived. The meal was particularly good, And the coffee. The waitress was unlike the women he had known. She was unaffected; there was a natural humor which came from her. The fry cook said crazy things, the dishwasher in the back Laughed, a good, clean, pleasant laugh. The young man watched the snow through the windows. He wanted to stay in that cafe forever. The curious feeling swam through him That everything was beautiful there, that it would always stay beautiful there. Then the bus driver told the passengers that it was time to board. The young man thought, "I'll just sit here, I'll just stay here." But then he rose and followed the others into the bus. He found his seat and looked at the cafe through the bus window. Then the bus moved off, down a curve, downward, out of the hills. The young man looked straight forward. He heard the other passengers speaking of other things, Or they were reading or attempting to sleep. They had not noticed the magic. The young man put his head to one side, closed his eyes, pretended to sleep. There was nothing else to do—just to listen to the sound of the engine, The sound of the tires in the snow.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0