sweet music by Bukowski (o, una mañana soleada)

fotografía: David Gilmour

it beats love because there aren't any

wounds: in the morning

she turns on the radio, Brahms or Ives

or Stravinsky or Mozart. she boils the

eggs counting the seconds out loud: 56,

57, 58 ... she peels the eggs, brings

them to me in bed. after breakfast it's

the same chair and listen to the class-

ical music. she's on her first glass of

scotch and her third cigarette. I tell

her I must go to the racetrack. she's

been here about 2 nights and 2 days. "when

will I see you again?" I ask. she

suggests that might be up to me. I

nod and Mozart plays