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.
-Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame by Charles Bukowski