drink and wait

well, now Mae West died
and then George Raft,
and Eddie G. Robinson’s
been gone
a long time,
and Bogart and Gable
and Grable,
and Laurel and
Hardy
and the Marx Brothers,
all those Saturday
afternoons
as a boy
are gone
and I look
around this room
and it looks at me
through
the window panes,
it hangs
from the doornob,
and a gold
paperweight
of an owl
looks at me
who has had
too many
Saturday
afternoons.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1980
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: