Nothin very bad happen to me lately. <br />How you explain that? —I explain that, Mr Bones, <br />terms o' your bafflin odd sobriety. <br />Sober as man can get, no girls, no telephones, <br />what could happen bad to Mr Bones? <br />—If life is a handkerchief sandwich, <br /> <br />in a modesty of death I join my father <br />who dared so long agone leave me. <br />A bullet on a concrete stoop <br />close by a smothering southern sea <br />spreadeagled on an island, by my knee. <br />—You is from hunger, Mr Bones, <br /> <br />I offers you this handkerchief, now set <br />your left foot by my right foot, <br />shoulder to shoulder, all that jazz, <br />arm in arm, by the beautiful sea, <br />hum a little, Mr Bones. <br />—I saw nobody coming, so I went instead.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-76-henry-s-confession/
