Yesterday’s poem from The Writer’s Almanac was No. 6 by Charles Bukowsky. His work is not what I think of when I think of delicacy or sensitivity of observation. But he shows some of that in this piece.

Maybe I’ve misjudged him, based on the only book I’ve read cover to cover, Love Is A Dog From Hell. It troubled and disturbed, as I recall; I wanted somebody to drag his ass to an AA meeting, then maybe to Disneyland. The man needed an attitude adjustment, was my opinion.

What do I know? Anyway, here’s No. 6 by Charles Bukowski.