From my bed
I watch
3 birds
On a telephone
Wire.
One flies
Off.
Then
Another.
One is left,
Then
It too
Is gone.
My typewriter is
Tombstone
Still.
The birds all flying off the wire and into the depths of the sky possibly make Bukowski jealous because he wishes he too could fly off into the depths of his mind in order to conjure up a decent poem.
8 Count