Under the table, no. That last was stunning, <br />that flagon had breasts. Some men grow down cursed. <br />Why drink so, two days running? <br />two months, O seasons, years, two decades running? <br />I answer (smiles) my question on the cuff: <br />Man, I been thirsty. <br /> <br />The brake is incomplete but white costumes <br />threaten his rum, his cointreau, gin-&-sherry, <br />his bourbon, bugs um all. <br />His go-out privilege led to odd red times, <br />since even or especially in hospital things get hairy. <br />He makes it back without falling. <br /> <br />He sleep up a short storm. <br />He wolf his meals, lamb-warm. <br /> <br />Their packs bump on their' -blades, tan canteens swing, <br />for them this day my dawn's old, Saturday's IT, <br />through town toward a Scout hike. <br />For him too, up since two, out for a sit <br />now in the emptiest freshest park, one sober fling <br />before correspondence & breakfast.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-96-under-the-table-no-that-last-was-s/
