Ted Berrigan, poet, 1934-1983

by Gerard Malanga

Dear Ted,
I won’t say “Hello” ’cause the year just getting underway
is 2020.  I can just hear you say
“the year of perfect vision.”  Just like you.
The number of years separating us is now: 37!
Neither perfect or far & few between.
Just where we wanna be,
or rather, where I wanna be.
I can’t speak for you, buddy,
though I wish I could,
engaged in one of our dawn patrol raps while heading over to
Ratner’s
as the pigeons & sparrows take flight
across Tompkins Square
or wherever we could rest those intervening moments
the nearest park bench.
Those recollections & reflections.
Where are we going ?
We never did Paris entwined in each other’s marvels
while crossing all those crazy boulevards,
those abrupt cul-de-sacs.
No, we never did the Flore.
Ted, they don’t serve Pepsi.  Will café creme do ? !
It’ll grow on you, believe me.
Get rid of those red flannel shirts!
We’re going shopping at Galeries Lafayette Haussmann.
I’ll make a tailored man outta you.
I’ll make you wonder,
the way Cocteau found the time to wonder, too.
You’ll be happy to learn I’m writing poetry differently
these days, thanks to you.
That’ll make you wonder.
I’m not even chasing tail.  Ha.
I knew I’d get a laugh outta you.