but not entirely so

when I was a mailman 

one of my routes was special: 

a famous writer lived in one of those 

houses, 

I recognized his name on the letters, 

he was a famous writer but not a very 

good one, 

and I never saw him 

until this one morning when I was 

hungover 

I walked up to his house 

and he was outside 

he was standing in an old bathrobe, 

he needed a shave and he looked ill 

about 3 years from death 

but he had this good looking woman 

standing there with him 

she was much younger than he 

the sun shining through her full hair 

and her thin dress, 

I handed him his mail over the gate and 

said, "I've read your books," 

but he didn't answer 

he just looked down at the letters 

and I said, "I'm a writer too ..." 

he still didn't answer

he turned and walked off 

and she looked at me 

with a face that said nothing, 

then turned and followed 

him. 

I moved on to the next house 

where halfway across the lawn 

a toy bulldog 

came charging out 

growling 

with his putrid little eyes 

seething 

I caught him under the belly with 

my left foot 

and flung him up against a 

picture window 

and then I felt much better 

but not entirely 

so. 

 

[Charles Bukowski {1920-1994} 'the famous writer', from War All the Time]