Poetry - Charles Bukowski - the telephone

the telephone

will bring you people
with its ring,
people who do not know what to do with
their time
and they will ache to
infect you with
this
from a distance
(although they would prefer
to actually be in the same room
to better project their nullity upon
you).


the telephone is needed for
emergency purposes only.

these people are not
emergencies they are
calamities.

I have never welcomed the ring of a
telephone.

"hello," I will answer
guardedly.

"this is Dwight."

already you can feel their imbecile
yearning to invade.
they are the people-fleas that
crawl the
psyche.

"yes, what is it?"

"well, I'm in town tonight and
I thought..."

"listen, Dwight, I'm tied up, I
can't..."

"well, maybe another
time?

"maybe not..."

each person is only given so many
evenings
and each wasted evening is
a gross violation against the
natural course of
your only life;
besides, it leaves an aftertaste
which often lasts two or three days
depending upon the visitor.

the telephone is only for
emergency purposes.

it has taken me
decades
but I have finally found out
how to say
"no."

now
don't be concerned for them,
please:
they will simply dial another
number.

it could be
yours.

"hello," you will
say.

and they will say
"this is Dwight."

and then
you
be
the kind
understanding
soul.



 - Charles Bukowski
from The Last Night Of The Earth Poems