The Old Anarchist

my neighbor gives me the key to his house
when he goes on vacation.
I feed his cats
water his flowers and his lawn.
I place his mail in a neat stack upon
his dining room table.

am I the same man who planned to blow up
the city of Los Angeles
15 years ago?

I lock his door
walk down his front walk
pause
stretch a moment
in the sunset
thinking,
there’s still time
there’s still time for a
comeback,
I have never belonged
with these.

I walk down the sidewalk
toward my place
being careful
not to step
on the cracks.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1981
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: