Alone With Everybody By Charles Bukowski

The flesh covers the bone 

and they put a mind 

in there and 

sometimes a soul, 

and the women break 

vases against the walls 

and the men drink too 

much 

and nobody finds the 

one 

but keep 

looking 

crawling in and out 

of beds. 

flesh covers 

the bone and the 

flesh searches 

for more than 

flesh. 



there's no chance 

at all: 



we are all trapped by a singular 

fate. 



nobody ever finds 

the one. 



the city dumps fill 

the junkyards fill 

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill 

the graveyards fill 



nothing else 

fills.