Bukowski, Charles: old?

I'll be 73 in August,

almost time to pack my bags for a

lark in the dark

but there are two things

holding me back:

I haven't written enough

poems yet

and there's this

old guy who lives in

the house next door.

he's still there and he's

96.

he knocks on his window

with his cane and

blows kisses to my

wife.

he's totally alert,

straight arrow back,

quick on his feet,

he watches too much

tv but don't we

all?

I visit him sometimes.

he talks away,

not bad stuff, he sometimes

tends to repeat himself

but it's almost worth hearing

a second time.

I was sitting with him one

day and he said,

"you know, I'm going to

kick off soon ..."

"well," I said, "I don't know

about that."

"I do," he said.

"now look, would you like

to trade for my house?"

"well, yeah, it's a nice place."

"I don't know if you can give me

what I want for it ..."

"well, I don't either, try me."

"well," he said, "I'll trade for a new

set of testicles."

when this guy dies there is

going to be a great big space

that is going to be hard

to fill.

you know what I

mean?