Читать книгу Come On In! - Charles Bukowski - Страница 21

a heavyweight fighter called Young Stribling

was killed in the ring

so long ago

that I am certain

that I am the only one remembering him

tonight.

I am thinking of nobody else.

I sit here in this room and stare at the

lamp

and I think,

Stribling, Stribling.

outside

the starved palms continue to

decay

while in here

I remember and

watch a cigarette lighter,

an empty glass and a

wristwatch propped delicately on its

side.

Stribling.

son-of-a-bitch,

what causes me to think

about things like this?

I really don’t need to know,

yet I wonder.