Filling Time

I started telling her about this Bukowski poem I had read,

but then I remembered she could care less;

so I didn’t;

that’s the way it is a lot of times with us,

makes the whole process so much easier;

sometimes I forget the rules,

and she pretends to listen,

but most of the time,

we just remain silent;

there is one thing we do really good together,

and I suppose, from a practical point of view,

that is the only thing that matters,

because when we do that one thing;

I don’t really care

about a Bukowski poem either;

and I realize,

that everything else

is just filling time,

until we can do that one thing

again.

.

.