I miss him. When I get back to camp <br />I'll dig him up. Well, he can prop & watch, <br />can't he, pink or blue, <br />and I will talk to him. I miss him. Slams, <br />grand or any, aren't for the tundra much. <br />One face-card will do. <br /> <br />It's marvellous how four sit down—beyond <br />my thought how many tables sometimes are <br />in forgotten clubs <br />across & down the world. Your fever conned <br />us, pal. Will it work out, my solitaire? <br />The blubber's safe in the tubs, <br /> <br />the dogs are still, & all's well . . . nine long times <br />I loosed & buried. Then I shot him dead. <br />I don't remember why. <br />The Captain of the supply ship, playing for dimes, <br />thinks I killed him. The black cards are red <br />and where's the others? I—<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-111-i-miss-him-when-i-get-back-to-cam/
