{random poetry #50}

[ it’s Ours ]

there is always that space there
just before they get to us.
That
gentle pure
space

it’s worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won’t
get it all

ever.

Bukowski, C.,  from You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense