John Berryman Poems

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I met a junior—not so junior—and
a-many others, who knew 'him' or 'them'
long ago, slightly,
whom I know. It was the usual
cocktail party, only (my schedule being strict)
beforehand.

I worked. Well. Then they kept the kids away
with their own questions, over briefest coffee.
Then kids drove me to my city.
I think of the junior: once my advanced élève,
sweetnatured, slack a little, never perhaps to make,
in my opinion then, it.

In my opinion, after a decade, now.
He publishes. The place was second-rate
and is throwing up new buildings.
He'll be, with luck, there always.—Mr Bones,
stop that damn dismal.—Why can't we all the same
be? —Dr Bones, how?

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