as the poems go

as the poems increase into the thousand you

realize that you’ve created very

little.

it all comes down to rain, the sunlight,

the traffic, the nights and the days of the

years, the faces.

leaving this will be easier than living

it.

typing one more line now as

a man plays a piano through the radio.

the best writers have said very

little

and the worst,

far too much.

charles bukowski