A long time ago, my always intrepid friend Muffy Bolding wrote her favorite poem was “60 Yard Pass,” by Charles Bukowski. Bukowski not being one of my favorite poets, I was at the time, unfamiliar with his work.

Ever since then, “60 Yard Pass,” has been on a desktop sticky just within a second’s reach. Today I came across it after not reading it for awhile… Given the new year, found it especially poignant. Perhaps this poem is just the medicine you need today, too.

It reminded me of the astounding feats, adventures, failures, confusion, joy we all face. How we all carry them stoically and hold them inside. How we all house so many stories within us. How we walk around town as a container of our defeats and triumphs, silently hoping someone would ask us to share.

60 yard pass
by Charles Bukowski

most people don’t do very well and I get discouraged with
their existence, it’s such a waste:
all those bodies, all those lives
malfunctioning: lousy quarterbacks, bad waitresses,
in-competent carwash boys and presidents,
cowardly goal-keepers inept garage mechanics
bumbling tax accountants
and so forth

yet

now and then

I see a single performer doing something with a
natural excellence

it can be
a waitress in some cheap cafe or a 3rd string
quarterback
coming off the bench with 24 seconds on the clock
and completing that winning
60 yard pass

which lets me believe that
the possibility of the miracle is here with us
almost every day

and I’m glad that now and then
some 3rd string quarterback
shows me the truth of that belief
whether it be in science, art, philosophy,
medicine, politics, and/or etc.

else I’d shoot all the lights out of
this fucking city
right now