my mother, father and I
walked to the market
once a week
for our government relief food:
cans of beans, cans of
weenies, cans of hash,
some potatoes, some
eggs.
we carried the supplies
in large shopping
bags.
and as we left the market
we always stopped
outside
where there was a large
window
where we could see the
bakers
kneading
the flour into the
dough.
there were 5 bakers,
large young men
and they stood at
5 large wooden tables
working very hard,
not looking up.
they flipped the dough in
the air
and all the sizes and
designs were
different.
we were always hungry
and the sight of the men
working the dough,
flipping it in the
air was a wondrous
sight, indeed.
but then, it would come time
to leave
and we would walk away
carrying our heavy
shopping bags.
“those men have jobs,”
my father would say.
he said it each time.
every time we watched
the bakers he would say
that.
“I think I’ve found a new way
to make the hash,”
my mother would say
each time.
or sometimes it was
the weenies.
we ate the eggs all
different ways:
fried, poached, boiled.
one of our favorites was
poached eggs on hash.
but that favorite finally
became almost impossible
to eat.
and the potatoes, we fried
them, baked them, boiled
them.
but the potatoes had a way
of not becoming as tiresome
as the hash, the eggs, the
beans.
one day, arriving home,
we placed all our foodstuffs
on the kitchen counter and
stared at them.
then we turned away.
“I’m going to hold up a
bank!” my father suddenly
said.
“oh no, Henry, please!”
said my mother,
“please don’t!”
“we’re going to eat some
steak, we’re going to eat
steaks until they come out
of our ears!”
“but Henry, you don’t have
a gun!”
“I’ll hold something in my
coat, I’ll pretend it’s a gun!”
“I’ve got a water pistol,”
I said, “you can use that.”
my father looked at me.
“you,” he said, “SHUT UP!”
I walked outside.
I sat on the back steps.
I could hear them in there
talking but I couldn’t quite make it
out.
then I could hear them again, it was
louder.
“I’ll find a new way to cook everything!”
my mother said.
“I’m going to rob a goddamned
bank!” my father said.
“Henry, please, please don’t!”
I heard my mother.
I got up from the steps.
walked away into the
afternoon.
C. Bukowski, The Pleasures of the Damned (Poems, 1951 - 1993)
