cap

there was an old guy used to walk his
dog in the neighborhood;
the dog wasn’t particularly enhancing
and neither was he.
the dog was a black and white spotted
something, medium size, and
he
wore baggy pants and a sweater, but
most appealing was this cap which he
wore
rather flat on top of his head
almost like an afterthought.
I used to watch him walk by with his
hound
(they were both medium-sized)
just as evening was going into
night.
they gave the neighborhood a sense of
peace and easiness,
and old school strength
that was needed.

they made the neighborhood.

the evening came when somehow
the old guy and the dog
were walking along the sidewalk
toward me
as I walked toward them.
how this became arranged, I
don’t know.

as they came closer I stopped.
the hound was sniffing
moving forward at jerking angles
and the old guy
followed
neither leading or being
lead
and since I had had several drinks
I wasn’t adamant to speak:

“hi there!” I said.

“good evening,” he said.

“you know,” I said, “you rather remind me
of Henry Miller.”

“who’s Henry Miller?” he asked.

“he’s dead now, but…”

the hound moved along
the old guy passed me,
he and the dog went down along
the sidewalk, the
lawns.

I watched them as they went
to the corner
made their turn and were
gone.

it was not long after that
that I was moved out of that
neighborhood….


personally, yes, I might stop
writing stuff like this
if I can find a way
short of death and/or
senility

but, personally, things like
that old guy and his
dog make it hard
to stop.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1982
Source
Original manuscript