we were in her big oak
bed
facing south
so much of the rest of the
time
that I memorized
each wrinkle in the
drapes
and especially
all the cracks in the
ceiling.

I used to play games with
her with that ceiling.

"see those cracks up
there?"

"where?"

"look where I'm pointing..."

"o.k."

"now, see those cracks, see the
pattern? it forms and image. do you see
what it is?"

"umm, umm ..."

"go on, what is it?"

"I know! It's a man on top of a woman!"

"wrong. it's a flamingo standing
by a stream."

. . .

we finally got free of
one another.
it's sad but it's
standard operating procedure
(I am constantly confused by
the lack of durability in human
affairs).

I suppose the parting was
unhappy
maybe even ugly.
it's been 3 or 4
years now
and I wonder if she
ever thinks of
me, of what I am doing?

Author: Charles Bukowski