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
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,
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
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.

by Charles Bukowski

Comments (3)

bince fddddfvfddcndmdcnhdfdfjefvnkevlmd, m; gtrnjlckmds,
A beautiful poem. Ten stanzas from Paul Laurence Dunbar on Frederick Douglass. A perfect ode.
'She stretches out her bleeding hands to God.' Very special line, Then I ask every one who 'Stretched Hands' Did any God hear? Scavengers continue to kill! They're born to cause pain for others Till they sigh feeling worse than that fear.