My Mom’s Visiting from California, and I’m Busy Chauffeuring Her and the Kids Around Town to Clang in the the Trolley, Toot in the Train, Bob in the Lake, Strike (Out) in the Bowling Alley, and Gnosh on Sweet Treats, So I Haven’t a Breaf in My Body Left for the Blogging I Really Want to Do–All of Which, In Sum, Means I’m Quickly Tossing Out a Poem I Love, One That Captures My Current August Zing

Indeed, this poem has a summertime feeling for me–bright and cornucopial and ticking along.

I’d like to fancy myself the woman in this poem, but the truth is I’m more the lucky fool.

THE RED PORSCHE By Charles Bukowski

it feels good
to be driven about in a red
porsche
by a woman better-
read than I
am.
it feels good
to be driven about in a red
porsche
by a woman who can explain
things about
classical
music to
me.

it feels good
to be driven about in a red
porsche
by a woman who buys
things for my refrigerator
and my
kitchen:
cherries, plums, lettuce, celery,
green onions, brown onions,
eggs, muffins, long
chilis, brown sugar,
Italian seasoning, oregano, white
wine vinegar, pompeian olive oil
and red
radishes.

I like being driven about
in a red porsche
while I smoke cigarettes in
gentle languor.

I’m lucky. I’ve always been
lucky:
even when I was starving to death
the bands were playing for
me.
but the red porsche is very nice
and she is
too, and I’ve learned to feel good when
I feel good.

it’s better to be driven around in a
red porsche
than to own
one. the luck of the fool is
inviolate.


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