Charles Bukowski

 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

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

Posted for Kerry’s Challenge @ Real Toads

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