eat your heart out
I’ve come by, she says, to tell you
that this is it. I’m not kidding, it’s
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange
her long red hair before my bedroom
mirror.
she pulls her hair up and
piles it on top of her head—
she lets her eyes look at
my eyes—
then she drops her hair and
lets it fall down in front of her face.
we go to bed and I hold her
speechlessly from the back
my arm around her neck
I touch her wrists and hands
feel up to
her elbows
no further.
she gets up.
this is it, she says,
eat your heart out. you
got any rubber bands?
don’t know.
here’s one, she says,
this will do. well,
I’m going.
I get up and walk her
to the door
just as she leaves
she says,
I want you to buy me
some high—heeled shoes
with tall thin spikes,
black high—heeled shoes.
no, I want them
red.
I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees
she walks all right and
as the pointsettas drip in the sun
I close the door.
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
