the 8 count concerto

the lid to the great jar
opens
and out tumbles a
Christ Child.
I throw it to my cat
who bats it around in the
air
but soon tires of
the lack of
response.
it is near the end of
February in a so far
banal year.
not a damn good war
in sight anywhere.
I light an Italian cigar,
it's slim, tastes bitter.
I inhale the space between
continents
stretch my legs.
it's moments like
this - you can feel it
happening - that you grow
transformed
partly into something
else strange and
unimaginable -
so when death comes
it can only take
part of
you

I exhale a perfect
smoke ring
as a soprano sings to me
through the radio

each night counts for something
or else we'd all
go mad.

- Charles Bukowski, from his book
what matters most is how well you walk through the fire