I always kind of hoped that humor would hit me in old age
and it hasn't, so I thought I'd begin
the reading with a funny poem by John Berryman
to ease the pain a little.
He has a character who appears in all of his dream songs
and the character's name is Henry, and in a way represents
Berryman himself.
This is "Dream Song Number Four".
Filling her compact and delicious body
with chicken paprika, she glanced at me twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back and only
the fact of her husband and four other people
kept me from springing on her or falling at her little feet
and crying, "You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes have enjoyed.
Brilliance."
I advanced upon despairing my spumoni.
Sir bones is stuffed.
The world with feeding girls.
Black hair, complexion Latin, jeweled eyes downcast, the slob
beside her feasts.
What wonders is she sitting on over there?
The restaurant buzzes.
She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong?
There ought to be a law against Henry.
Mr. Bones, there he is.