flophouse

By Charles Bukowski

you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.

your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds

and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
pissed and shitted
underwear

and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.

and those
bodies
in the dark.

fat and
thin
and
bent

some
legless
armless

some
mindless

and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope

it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.

it's not
bearable.

you get
up
go out

walk the
streets

up and
down
sidewalks

past buildings

around the
corner

and back
up
the same
street

thinking

those men
were all
children
once

what has happened
to
them?

and what has
happened
to
me?

it's dark
and cold
out
here.