The first time I read this poem, I thought, “Great, another old guy complaining about being old.” But then I kept coming back to it, and I think I get it now—not the old part, but the part about feeling like you’re just going through the motions, and nothing really lands. The doctor’s going to ask about drinking and exercise, but Bukowski knows it’s not that. He says he’s “ill with life.” That line hit me hard, because it’s not about being sick in a medical way. It’s about the sameness of everything, the “stale yet fluctuating factors.” Like, you wake up, go to school, come home, do homework, scroll your phone, sleep. Repeat. And even when something should feel exciting—like a race, or a party, or a game—it just feels meaningless. You leave early. You buy tickets you don’t even care about.
What strikes me is how honest it is. He doesn’t try to make himself sound cool or profound. He’s just propped up on pillows, an “old writer with a yellow notebook.” He’s not solving anything. He’s not having a revelation. The motel clerk even says, “If you think it’s boring out there, you oughta be back here,” and he’s right—there’s no escape. The boredom follows you. I’ve had that feeling in my own life, where I think a change of scenery will fix things, but then I’m just bored somewhere else.
But then there’s the cat. The last few lines are so simple—something walking toward him, and it’s just his cat this time. That “this time” makes me think he’s used to something darker, maybe fear or loneliness, but the cat is a small, ordinary presence that breaks the heaviness. It’s not a solution. It’s just a cat. But it’s company. It’s something that walks toward him instead of away. And I think that matters.
This poem makes me think about how we cope. My friends and I joke that we’re “existing, not living,” and we laugh it off, but Bukowski doesn’t laugh it off. He sits in it. He writes from the bed, even if it feels pointless. He shows up to the doctor. He watches the horses. And the fact that he’s still writing, still propped up with that yellow notebook, feels like a quiet kind of refusal to give up completely. It’s not heroic. It’s not inspiring. But it’s real.
I don’t have a cat, but I have a playlist I put on when everything feels stale, and this poem reminded me why I do that. It’s not about fixing anything. It’s about having something walk toward you, even if it’s just a small thing you can hold onto for a moment. That’s enough.