Pleasures of the Damned

It's finally feeling like spring in Chicago, and today all I really want to do is one of two things: hang out with my cats and read Bukowski, or drive around with the windows down listening to Tegan and Sara. That's it. That's what I want to do.

I have to go to work.

eat your heart out

by Charles Bukowski

I've come by, she says, to tell you

that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's

over. this is it.

I sit on the couch watching her arrange

her long red hair before my bedroom

mirror.

she pulls her hair up and

piles it on top of her head-

she lets her eyes look at

my eyes-

then she drops her hair and

lets it fall down in front of her face.

we go to bed and I hold her

speechlessly from the back

my arm around her neck

I touch her wrists and hands

feel up to

her elbows

no further.

she gets up.

this is it, she says,

eat your heart out. you

got any rubber bands?

I don't know.

here's one, she says,

this will do. well,

I'm going.

I get up and walk her

to the door

just as she leaves

she says,

I want you to buy me

some high-heeled shoes

with tall thin spikes,

black high-heeled shoes.

no, I want them

red.

I watch her walk down the cement walk

under the trees

she walks all right and

as the poinsettias drip in the sun

I close the door.

This is it. Eat your heart out.