My buddy.

for a 21-year-old boy in New Orleans I wasn’t worth
much : I had a dark small room that smelled of
piss and death
yet I just wanted to stay in there, and there were
two lovely girls down at the end of the hall who
kept knocking on my door and yelling. "Get up !
There are good things out here !"

"Go away," I told them, but that only goaded
them on, they left notes under my door and
scotch-taped flowers to the
doorknob.

I was on cheap wine and green beer and
dementia...

I got to know the old guy in the next
room, somehow I felt old like
him ; his feet and ankles were swollen and he couldn’t
lace his shoes.

Each day about one p.m. we went for a walk
together and it was a very slow
walk : each step was painful for
him.

As we came to the curbing I helped him
up and down
gripping him by an elbow
and the back of his
belt, we made it.

I liked him : he never questioned me about
what I was or wasn’t
doing.

He should have been my father, and I liked
best what he said over and
over : "Nothing is worth
it."

he was a
sage

those young girls should have
left him the
notes and the
flowers.

Esta pagina ha sido perpetrada por Sergi Puertas
Accede a la pagina  indice de Bukowski en: http://www.oocities.org/SunsetStrip/5855/
Accede a mi pagina personal en http://www.deabruak.com/sergi/
Esta pagina se lee mejor navegando con vino barato en el cuerpo