Bukowski, Charles: 40.000 flies

torn by a temporary wind
we come back together again

check walls and ceilings for cracks and
the eternal spiders

wonder if there will be one more
woman

now
40.000 flies running the arms of my
soul
singing
I met a million dollar baby in a
5 and 10 cent
store

arms of my soul?
flies?
singing?

what kind of shit is
this?

it’s so easy to be a poet
and so hard to be
a man.