The Tragedy of Leaves
Charles Bukowski
that’s the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world has failed us
both
maybe it was your name
or Mr Chinaski's editor who insisted
poetry should be written in rondo form
poetry should be written in rondo form
the stale smell of beer
or the empty wine bottles rolling around
like bleeding corpses on the floor
in the madrigal rooming house
your love for cats
no
it was your mother trying to be
a happy goldfish circling endlessly around
in the bowl who clinched it for me
