I turn off my room air-

Conditioner for a second

And sure as the sun, I hear

The sickening sound of an

Old man’s voice, my neighbor’s,

Saying something trivial or

Inane to another old fool,

The trailer park “manager,”

Not far from my bedroom

Window. And I’m thankful

At least

That neither is working a

Buzzsaw or blasting a radio

For hours on end

As they have in the past,

Yet It’s sobering to

Contemplate how little

There is to protect

My tranquility

From them.

With my reading

And writing, and playing

Old jazz standards on my

Low volume or unplugged

semi-acoustic guitar, I don’t

Bother anyone. And lately,

For the most part, the neighbors,

Have been leaving me alone.

Of course I had to fight for

That. Even peace isn’t free.

It’s unsettling to

Consider just how little

There is to protect my

Peace from

So-called human beings:

Thin walls, my AC, and

The soothing, blanketing

Hum of an old tube

Amplifier, barely heard,

as I strum those

Lovely old jazz chords

Like C13 flat5 flat9

And drift into a past

I never knew

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

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