Charles Bukowski, ' Temps When Confessing

Living off of long white lies, squirming out of breath. Hear comes the maid. Too change out my yellow, bear stained sweaty sheets. When I hear the key, the bathroom always calls me. I can not remember when the black dried up banana's out back in the wooden bowl here she comes, when last were green. Pulling the yellow ones from yesterdays bag, I stand up too watch through the key hole. Looking down, I have never felt so much guilt, always shaking. Missing love, I wait by the cooler. Knowing why, I hide inside, coming out. When I am gone.