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Carson McCullers by Charles Bukowski

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Browsing through my bookshelf earlier. Saw a McCullers title I’ve yet to read but didn’t pick it up. Hesitated on getting Bukowski which was sitting under a big pile. And now, this poem. Are you trying to tell me something, dear universe?

Carson McCullers
Charles Bukowski

she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean

all her books of
terrified loneliness

all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love

were all that was left
of her

as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body

notified the captain

and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship

as everything
continued just
she had written it

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