hank's "poem for my daughter"

i spoon it
in: strained chicken noodle dinner
junior prunes
junior fruit desert.

spoon it in and
for Christ's sake
don't blame the
child
don't blame the
govt.
don't blame the bosses or the
working classes-

spoon it down
into that little mouth
like melted
wax.

a friend phones:
"whatya gonna do now, Hank?"
"what the hell ya mean, what am I gonna
do?"
"I mean ya got responsibility now, ya gotta bring the
kid up
right."

I feed her instead:
spoon it in!
may she achieve
a place in Beverly Hills
with never any need for unemployment compensation
and never have to sell to the highest
bidder.

and never fall in love with a soldier or a killer of any
kind.

and may she
appreciate Beethoven and Jelly Roll Morton and
beautiful dresses.

she's got a real
chance:
there was once the
Theoric Fund and now there's the
Great Society.

"are ya still gonna play the horses? are ya still gonna
drink? are ya still gonna-?"

"yes."

she is a waving flower in the wind and the dead center of
my heart-
now she sleeps beautifully like a
boat on the Nile.

maybe some day she will
bury me.
that would be nice.

if it weren't a
responsibility.


-bukowski