The Pleasures of the Damned: Selected Poems 1951-1993

by Charles Bukowski

eulogy with old cars, especially when you buy them secondhand and drive them for many years a love affair is inevitable: you even learn to accept their little eccentricities: the leaking water pump the failing plugs the rusted throttle arm the reluctant carburetor the oily engine the dead clock the frozen speedometer and other sundry defects. you also learn all the tricks to keep the love affair alive: how to slam the glove compartment so that it will stay closed, how to slap the headlight with an open palm in order to have light, how many times to pump the gas pedal and how long to wait before touching the starter, and you overlook each burn hole in the upholstery and each spring poking through the fabric. your car has been in and out of police impounds, has been ticketed for various malfunctions: broken wipers, no turn signals, missing brake light, broken tail lights, bad brakes, excessive exhaust and so forth but in spite of everything you knew you were in good hands, there was never an accident, the old car moved you from one place to another, faithfully —the poor man’s miracle. so when that last breakdown did occur, when the valves quit, when the tired pistons cracked, or the crankshaft failed and you sold it for junk —you then had to watch it carted away hanging there from the back of the tow truck wheeled off as if it had no soul, the bald rear tires the cracked back window and the twisted license plate were the last things you saw, and it hurt as if some woman you ...