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he was a good one
say 18, 19,
marine
and every time
woman came down the train aisle
he seemed to stand up
so I couldn’t see
her
and the woman smiled at him
 
but I didn’t smile
at him
 
he kept looking at himself in the
train window
and standing up and taking off his
coat and then standing up
and putting it back
on
 
he polished his belt buckle with a
delighted vigor
 
and his neck was red and
his face was red and his eyes were a
pretty blue
 
but I didn’t like
him
 
and every time I went to the can
he was either in one of the cans
 
or he was in front of one of the mirrors
combing his hair or
shaving
 
and he was always walking up and down the
aisles
or drinking water
watched his Adam’s apple juggle the water
down
 
he was always in my
eyes
 
but we never spoke
and I remembered all the other trains
all the other buses
all the other wars
 
he got off at Pasadena
vainer than any woman
he got off at Pasadena
proud and
dead
 
the rest of the train ride—
or 10 miles—
was perfect.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...



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