alone with everybody

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.

"Alone with everybody", Charles Bukowski
De "Love is a dog from hell (Poems 1974-1977)."