AIN'T NO ROOM FOR BLUEBIRDS (For Bukowski)

ain't no room
for bluebirds
in this shit box, baby
so
drown it
in a bottle of what's cheap
and  
set the alarm
and punch that clock
and fumble through
another day
of sort  
and shuffle
and wash it all down
 
and goddamn how
that skirt rides up
and she knows it
and i know it, too,
and all this heart
and tender soul
is delicate  
just under the skin
like a woman
soft as summer's night,
flawed and lovely
under the sheet
but then
there ain't no room
for bluebirds
 
not in this shit box, baby