the girls we followed home

the girls we once followed home are
now the bag ladies,
or one of them is that white-haired
old crone who
whacked you with her
the girls we once followed home
sit on bedpans in nursing
play shuffleboard at the public
they no longer dive into the
white-capped waves,
those girls we followed home,
no longer rub their bodies with oil
under the sun,
no longer primp before the
beautiful mirror,
those girls we followed home,
those girls we followed home
have gone somewhere,
some forever,
and we who followed them?
dead in wars, dead of heart
dead of yearning,
thick of shoe and slow of
our dreams are tv dreams,
the few of us,
so few of us remember
the girls we followed home.
when the sun always seemed to
be shining.
when life moved so new and
strange and wonderful
bright dresses.

I remember.

© Charles Bukowski

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