the new place

  I type at a window that faces the street
  on ground level and
  if I fall out
  the worst that can happen is a dirty shirt
  under a tiny banana tree.

  as I type people go by
  mostly women
  and I sit in my shorts
  (without top)
  and going by they
  can't be sure I am not entirely
  naked. so
  I get these faces
  which pretend they don't see
  anything
  but I think they do:
  they see me as I
  sweat the poem like beating an
  ugly hog to death
  as the sun begins to fail over
  Sunset Blvd.
  over the motel sign
  where hot sweaty people from
  Arkansas and Iowa
  pay too much to sleep while
  dreaming of movie stars.
  there is a religionist next door
  and he plays his radio loud
  and it seems to have
  very good tubes
  so I am getting the
  message.
  and there's a white cat
  chewed-up and neurotic
  who calls 2 or 3 times a day
  eats and leaves
  but just looking at him
  lifts the soul a little
  like something on strings.
  and the same young man from the nudist
  magazine phones and we talk
  and I get the idea
  that we each hang up
  mildly thinking each other
  somewhat the fool.

  now the woman calls me to dinner.
  it's good to have food.
  when you've starved enough
  food always remains a
  miracle.
  the rent is a little higher here
  but so far I've been able to
  pay it
  and that's a miracle too
  like still maybe being sane
  while thinking of guns and sidewalks
  and old ladies in libraries.
  there are still
  small things to do
  like rip this sheet from the typer
  go in and eat
  stay alive this way.
  there are lots of curtains here
  and now the woman has walked in
  she's rocking back and forth
  in the rocker behind me
  a bit angry
  the food is getting cold and
  I've got to go
  she doesn't understand that
  I've got to finish this thing
  but it's just a poor little neighborhood
  not much place for Art,
  whatever that is, and
  I hear sprinklers
  there's a shopping basket
  a boy on roller skates.
  I quit I quit

  for the miracle of food and
  maybe nobody ever angry
  again, this place and
  all the other places.

Appears in The Wormwood Review #16, 1964 and The Roominghouse Madrigals, 1988

©Linda Lee Bukowski - used with permission