Charles Bukowski

the beautiful lady

we are gathered here now
to bury her in this
poem.
 
she did not marry an unemployed wino who
beat her every
night.
 
her several children will never wear
snot-stained shirts
or torn dresses.
 
the beautiful lady
simply
calmly
died.
 
and may the clean dirt of this poem
bury
her.
 
her and her womb
and her jewels
and her combs and her
poems
 
and her pale blue eyes
and her
grinning
rich
frightened
husband.
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