Author Charles Bukowski almost dawn blackbirds on the telephone wire waiting as I eat yesterday's forgotten sandwich at 6 a.m. an a quiet Sunday morning. one shoe in the corner standing upright the other laying on it's side. yes, some lives were made to be wasted. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments