John Berryman
Old codger Henry contain within hisself
Henry young, Henry almost beautiful
Henry the seducer
Henry the mad young artist, with no interest in pelf
whereas now he takes steps to keep both his bank accounts full
just like: you, Sir!
Henry could never put up with litter.
Litter grew on him as he grew, until
you couldn't see his tables
or the damned litter of papers, glasses,
visible incoherences -- & so was the floor, pal;
Henry lived like something from Aesop's Fables.
Codger Henry, desperatingly tired,
nevertheless got fed up with this state
which alas only he could fix.
I draw the veil over whom then he hired
but I promise they did not solve his fate.
He bared his rare watch. It ticks.
4 July 68, 7:15 a.m.