hello, how are you?

this fear of being anything except what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the streets, they think
of that, these
pasty mad who sit ever before their tv sets,
their lives full of mutilated laughter.

and
their parked cars
their little green lawns
their little homes
these doors that open and close
through the visitation of relatives
through the holidays
these doors that open and close
to the dying who die so slowly
and the dead who are still alive
in your quiet neighborhood
of winding streets
agony
confusion
horror
fear
ignorance

a dog behind a fence

a man mowing a lawn.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1990