It's Ours

Today has been one of those days. You know, the ones where you feel sort of like a fruit loop floating in space. I am sporting heavy lids, shading tired eyes and it's a miracle they haven't fallen shut yet. I have been been sitting on my bed with an incessant breeze twirling around me, keeping me languorous this Friday evening... or at least until the final taps of these keys when I will quit to embark on an adventure.

In the last few hours I have taken it upon myself to fill my tired brain with darts of pleasure- extracted from the paper details of a wonderful work by Mr. Charles Bukowski:



The poem that I have been falling in love with all over again is It's Ours.

Teat your eyes. To save you the googling time, I have posted it below:

there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing

that
gentle pure
space

it's worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all

ever.