Bukowski's Widow (for Linda)

how did you do it?
all those nights you never knew
when he would be home
if he would be home
or even worse
knowing who he was with
and not being able to find them
the days at the tracks
and the nights of Chianti
then in his final days
taking care of him
wiping his vomit
watching him
this great beast of a man
grow hollow and cold

because there you sit now
in the pew close to his casket
surrounded by drunks and degenerates
that you both called friends
you don’t cry
you don’t laugh
you just sit
in the plain black dress
with gartered stockings
and heels too high

and I wonder
did he beg you for death?
did he drink and curse?
did he lay just one more
bet down on the number 8?
did he want to fuck you
in that dress
one last time?