Charles Bukowski

Poem For My 43rd Birthday

from "All's Normal Here"; 1985

To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine— just a lightbulb and a potbelly, gray-haired, and glad to have the room. ...In the morning they're out there making money: judges, carpenters, plumbers, doctors, newsboys, policemen, barbers, car washers, dentists, florists, waitresses, cooks, cab drivers... and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes.

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