I've come by, she says, to tell you <br />that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's <br />over. this is it. <br />I sit on the couch watching her arrange <br />her long red hair before my bedroom <br />mirror. <br />she pulls her hair up and <br />piles it on top of her head- <br />she lets her eyes look at <br />my eyes- <br />then she drops her hair and <br />lets it fall down in front of her face. <br />we go to bed and I hold her <br />speechlessly from the back <br />my arm around her neck <br />I touch her wrists and hands <br />feel up to <br />her elbows <br />no further. <br />she gets up. <br />this is it, she says, <br />this will do. well, <br />I'm going. <br />I get up and walk her <br />to the door <br />just as she leaves <br />she says, <br />I want you to buy me <br />some high-heeled shoes <br />with tall thin spikes, <br />black high-heeled shoes. <br />no, I want them <br />red. <br />I watch her walk down the cement walk <br />under the trees <br />she walks all right and <br />as the pointsettas drip in the sun <br />I close the door.<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eat-your-heart-out/
