Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame

some dogs who sleep At night

must dream
of bones

and I remember your bones

in flesh

and best

in that dark green dress

and those high-heeled bright

black shoes,

you always cursed when you drank,

your hair
coming down you

wanted to explode out of

what was holding you:

rotten memories of a

rotten

past, and

you finally got

out

by dying,

leaving me with the

rotten

present;

you've been dead

28 years

yet I remember you

better than any of

the rest;

you were the only one

who understood

the futility of the

arrangement of life;

all the others were only

displeased with

trivial segments,

carped

nonsensically about

nonsense;

Jane, you were

killed by

knowing too much.

here's a drink

to your bones

that

this dog

still

dreams about.

Charles Bukowski