one by Bukowski

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.