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.

C. Bukowski.