Insomnia, by Charles Bukowski

have you ever been in a room

on top of 32 people sleeping

on the floors below,

only you are not sleeping,

you are listening to the engines

and horns that never stop,

you are thinking of minotaurs,

you are thinking of Segovia

who practices 5 hours a day

or the graves

that need no practice,

and your feet twist in the sheets

and you look down at a hand

that could easily belong to a man

of 80, and you

are on top of 32 people sleeping

and you know that most of them

will awaken

to yawn and eat and empty trash,

perhaps defecate,

but right now they are yours,

riding your minotaurs

breathing fiery hailstones of song,

or mushroom breathing:

skulls flat as coffins,

all lovers parted,

and you rise and light a cigarette,

evidently,

still alive.

-          Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madigrals

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