a new war by Charles Bukowski

a different fight now, warding off the weariness of

age,

retreating to your room, stretching out upon the bed,

there’s not much will to move,

it’s near midnight now.

not so long ago your night would be just

beginning, but don’t lament lost youth:

youth was no wonder

either.

but now it’s the waiting on death.

it’s not death that’s the problem, it’s the waiting.

you should have been dead decades ago.

the abuse you wreaked upon yourself was

enormous and non-ending.

a different fight now, yes, but nothing to

mourn, only to

note.

frankly, it’s even a bit dull waiting on the

blade.

and to think, after I’m gone,

there will be more days for others, other days,

other nights,.

dogs walking, trees shaking in

the wind.

I won’t be leaving much.

something to read, maybe.

a wild onion in the gutted

road.

Paris in the dark.