by Charles Bukowski
sometimes I think the gods
deliberately keep pushing me
into the fire
just to hear me
yelp
a few good
lines.
they just aren’t going to
let me retire
silk scarf about neck
giving lectures at
Yale.
the gods need me to
entertain them.
they must be terribly
bored with all
the others
and I am too.
and now my cigarette lighter
has gone dry.
I sit here
hopelessly
flicking it.
this kind of fire
they can’t give
me.
