why do write so many poems about death?

even Shakespeare’s dead.

photo of Hemingway downstairs
in the hall by a big brass
bell,
For Whom the Bell Tolls.

Pascal.
Hitler.
Sammy Davis Jr.
Marconi.

the little old lady who watered her
geraniums.

the hunting dogs of the mad
count.

almost all the Tarzans.

Jane.

and my first
wife.
and
Primo Carnera.

and you’re going to die too,
old man, you and your fat white
legs,
you and your pose,
playing it tough
like you know what the
hell.

drinking and smoking and typing
you look down, you’re in
shorts
and on your leg a spot of
blood.
what?
something drips.
it’s your nose.
some of it has even dripped
into your shirt
pocket.

Christ, your wife will be
mad.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1990
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: