Odd by Charles Bukowski

some nights

like this night

seem to crawl down the back of one’s

neck and settle at the base of the skull,

stay there

like that

like this.

it is probably a little prelude to

death,

a warm-up.

I accept.

then the mind becomes like a

movie:

I watch Doestoevsky in a small room

and he is drinking a glass of

milk.

it is not a long movie:

he puts the glass down and it

ends.

then I am back

here.

an air purifier

makes its soft sound behind me.

I smoke too much, the whole room

often turns blue

so now my wife has put in the air purifier.

now the night has left the back

of my skull.

I lean back in the swivel

chair

pick up a bottle opener shaped

like a horse.

it’s like I’m holding the whole world

here

shaped like a horse.

I put the world down,

open a paper clip and begin to clean

my fingernails.

waiting on death can be perfectly

peaceful.