Charles Bukowski, ' Temps When Confessing Poem by James McLain

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.