alone with everybody

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but they keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than flesh.

there’s no chance

at all :

we are all trapped

by a singular fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

Bukowski, Charles. « alone with everybody », Love is a Dog From Hell, Poems 1974-1977, Harper Collins 1977, p. 97-98