Читать книгу The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski - Страница 53

grass

at the window

I watch a man with a

power mower

the sounds of his doing race like

flies and bees

on the wallpaper,

it is like a warm fire, and

better than eating steak,

and the grass is green enough

and the sun is sun enough

and what’s left of my life

stands there

checking glints of green flying;

it is a giant disrobing of

care, stumbling away from

doing.

suddenly I understand

old men in rockers

bats in Colorado caves

tiny lice crawling into

the eyes of dead birds.

back and forth

he follows his gasoline

sound. it is

interesting enough,

with

the streets

flat on their Spring backs

and smiling.