not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I’ll just sit
here, I’ll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
For some reason, this poem from Bukowski really stuck to me. I came across this for the first time when I was reading ‘running with the hunted – a charles bukowski reader’. Of all the poetry the book had (and there was a lot), this simply resonated with me.
Perhaps it was because of the time and the kind of life I was living back then. From being a student at the local college to someone who had started working, may be, the transition of the lives we lead made me yearn for the life I once had. Everything in college seemed like it were touched by magic: pleasant, refreshing, almost quixotic. From such an idyllic life to the one I lead now where everything revolves around a bottomline, a figure that seems so close to my fingers but jumps away a click just as I reach for it.
Or it could be that this was just a darn good poem. Bukowski was a good writer and he wrote a lot. That’s held against him quite often – he wrote too much without distilling the experience to the moment that transcends the ordinary. But Bukowski lead a life that could hardly be termed as extraordinary. His writing always reflected the poverty of his life. Yes, he had to go through hard times but I think his dermatological excesses always played with his mind. His earliest writings reflect the pyschology of a man plagued by his skin. He may have grown on to overlook that in his musings later on, but subconsciously, his work has always tried to tell a tale of the underdog.
Bah, I have said too much.
