answers that never arrive

I sit by the window and listen to the rain
come down
and I think about why we
do these things

we sit with our elbows on these
brick walls,
talking
bickering
lamenting the passing of our youth,
and what it means to be
young.

we write letters to Santa Claus
tell him about how
we’ve been good
we should get presents
waiting for answers that never arrive.

we spend our days and nights
drinking
screwing
screaming our heads off
and all it ever really does
is make my stomach
hurt

BUKOWSKI