From Charles Bukowski’s “When the violets roar at the sun”
they’ve got us in the cage
ruined of grace and senses
and the heart roars like a lion
at what they’ve done to us
The breeze creeps through
cracked windows,
screens fuzzy
like you’re missing a contact,
sitting in the same spot
for eight hours,
leaving only for the toilet,
food, if you’re lucky,
and they know
they’ve got us in a cage.
“get a job,” they said,
“one that pays the bills,”
the bills we never asked for,
the ones that didn’t exist
when we were there,
there was just always
heat & electricity & water
& the park bench was
just a park bench
ruined of grace & senses.
cars billowing past the window,
a Mr. Coffee coffee pot, violet orchids,
