a new war

a different fight now, warding off the weariness of
old age,
retreating to your room, stretched 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 not to lament upon lost youth:
youth was no wonder
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 loaded upon yourself was
enormous and non-ending.
a different fight now, yes, but nothing to
mourn about, only to
frankly, it’s even a bit dull waiting on the
and to think, after I’m gone,
there will be more for others, other days,
other nights.
dogs walking sidewalks, trees shaking in
the wind.
I won’t be leaving much.
something to read, maybe.
a wild onion in the gutted
Paris in the dark.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript