bukowski

it beats love because there aren’t any 
wounds : in the morning
she turns on the radio, Brahms or Ives
or Stravinsky or Mozart. she boils the
eggs counting the seconds out loud : 56,
57, 58 … she peels the eggs, brings
them to me in bed. after breakfast it’s
the same chair and listen to the class-
ical music. she’s on her first glass of
scotch and her third cigarette. I tell
her I must go to the racetrack. she’s
been here about 2 nights and 2 days. “when
will I see you again?” I ask. she
suggests that might but up to me. I
nod and Mozart plays.