Читать книгу The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski - Страница 21

the young man on the bus stop bench

he sits all day at the bus stop

at Sunset and Western

his sleeping bag beside him.

he’s dirty.

nobody bothers him.

people leave him alone.

the police leave him alone.

he could be the 2nd coming of Christ

but I doubt it.

the soles of his shoes are completely

gone.

he just laces the tops on

and sits and watches traffic.

I remember my own youthful days

(although I traveled lighter)

they were similar:

park benches

street corners

tarpaper shacks in Georgia for

$1.25 a week

not wanting the skid row church

hand-outs

too crazy to apply for relief

daytimes spent laying in public parks

bugs in the grass biting

looking into the sky

little insects whirling above my head

the breathing of white air

just breathing and waiting.

life becomes difficult:

being ignored

and ignoring.

everything turns into white air

the head fills with white air

and as invisible women sit in rooms

with successful bright-eyed young men

conversing brilliantly about everything

your sex drive

vanishes and it really

doesn’t matter.

you don’t want food

you don’t want shelter

you don’t want anything.

sometimes you die

sometimes you don’t.

as I drive past

the young man on the bus stop bench

I am comfortable in my automobile

I have money in two different banks

I own my own home

but he reminds me of my young self

and I want to help him

but I don’t know what to do.

today when I drove past again

he was gone

I suppose finally the world wasn’t

pleased with him being there.

the bench still sits there on the corner

advertising something.