The Death of an Idiot

[*Charles Bukowski sample*]
He spoke to mice and sparrows
And his hair was white at the age of sixteen
His father beat him every day and his mother lit candles in the church
He seemed to be constantly masturbating in such odd places
As behind the garage or up in the apricot tree
His grandmother came while the boy slept and prayed for the devil to let loose his hold upon him
While his mother listened and cried over the bible
The young girls he didn't seem to notice
The games boys played, he didn't seem to notice
There wasn't much he seemed to notice
He just didn't seem interested
He had a very large and ugly mouth and the teeth bent out
And his eyes were small and lusterless
His shoulders were slump and his back was bent like an old man
He lived in our neighborhood
We talked about him a bit when we got bored, and then went on to more interesting things
He seldom left his house
We would've liked to beat him but his father who was a huge and terrible man beat him for us
One day the boy died
At seventeen he was still a boy
A death in a small neighborhood is noted with alacrity and forgotten three or four days later
But the death of this boy seemed to stay with us all
We kept talking about it, in our boy-man's voices, at 6:00 p.m. just before dark
Just before dinner
And whenever I drive through that neighborhood now, decades later
I think of his death, while having forgotten all the other death or anything else that had happened then
As I say
Can't all be sex can it?