Heat Wave

 
another one.
this night the people sit drunk or drugged or some of them
sit in front of their tv sets
slapped silly.
some few have air-conditioning.

the neighborhood dogs and cats flop about
waiting for a better time.

and I remember the cars along the freeway today
some of them stalled in the fast lane,
hoods up.

there are more murders in the heat
more domestic arguments.

Los Angeles has been burning for
weeks.

even the desperately lonely have not phoned
and that alone
makes all this almost
worthwhile:

those little mewling voices cooked into
silence
as I listen to the music of a long dead man
written in the 19th
century.

Categories: Poems

Tags: Charles Bukowski, Heat Wave, poem of the week, poetry