Class
these boys have got class
they ought to make kings
out of old men
rolling cigarettes
in rooms small enough
to recognize
a single shadow;
for them
all has gone away
like a light under the
door
yet
they recognize and
bear the absence;
tricked and slugged to
zero
they wait on death
with the temperate patience of
a mother teaching her child
to eat;
for them, everything has
run away
like a rose in the mouth
of a hog;
the burning of cities
must have been
like this.
but like trucks of garbage
shaking with love
these boys
might
rise like Lorca
out of the road
with one more poem,
rise like
Lazarus to
gaze upon the
still living female,
and then
get drunk
drunk
until it all
falls apart
so sad
again.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
