Poem by Henry Charles Bukowski

father, who art in heaven

my father was a practical man.
he had an idea.
you see, my son, he said,
I can pay for this house in my lifetime,
then it's mine.
when I die I pass it on to you.
now in your lifetime you can acquire a house
and then you'll have two houses
and you'll pass those two houses on to your
son, and in his lifetime he acquires a house,
then when he dies, his son -
I get it, I said.
my father died while trying to drink a
glass of water. I buried him. solid
mahogany casket, after the funeral I went
to the racetrack, met a high yellow, after
the races we went to her apartment for
dinner and goodies.
I sold his house after about a month.
I sold his car and his furniture
and gave away all his paintings except one
and all his fruit jars
(filled with fruit boiled in the heat of summer)
and put his dog in the pound.
I dated his girlfriend twice
but getting nowhere
I gave it up.
I gambled and drank away the money.
now I live in a cheap front court in
Hollywood and take out the garbage to
hold down the rent.
               my father was a practical man.
               he choked on that glass of water and
               saved on hospital bills.

1. the girls
2. palm leaves

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