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.
