I got this idea from anniegirl1138. You’re supposed to post a poem today, February 2nd.

Charles Bukowski has a reputation (much of it self-manufactured and not wholly deserved if you ask me) of being a callous, drunken lout who hated women. Well, get a load of this beauty.

confession

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body

shake it once, then
maybe
again:

“Hank!”

Hank
won’t answer.

it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.