A poem by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little in there,
I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it's nice enough
to make a man weep,
but I don't weep,
do you?