A poem by Ron Padgett
i.m. James Schuyler
If Wystan Auden were alive today
he’d be a small tangle of black lines
on a rumpled white bedsheet,
his little eyes looking up at you.
What did you bring?
Some yellow daffodils and green stems.
Or did they bring you?
Auden once said,
“Where the hell is Bobby?”
and we looked around,
but there was no Bobby there.
Ah, Auden, no Bobby for you.
Just these daffodils in a clean white vase.