This next poem is a request.
And I seldom do requests unless someone asks me to.
And title of this is, "Keats," an obvious reference
to John Keats, British poet who died in--
well, he was 25 when he died or something.
OK.
"Keats."
You lie like a wrinkled canvas across my bed.
Elixirs of love and routine necessities
are smeared across your face.
I'm sorry.
The title of this is "Sheets."
Sheets, I'm sorry.
[LAUGHTER]
Jeez, I don't know how I miss some.
[LAUGHTER]
"Sheets."
OK, now settle down.
This is poetry.
[LAUGHTER]
You lie like a wrinkled canvas across my bed.
Well, it almost makes sense.
Elixirs of love and routine necessities
are smeared across your face.
I don't know what to do.
I could continue hiding you under the covers
but I'm ashamed to take anyone else there.
And the nights, the nights are getting long.
Washing is the only answer.
But when I take you into laundry mats mothers gape in horror,
pull their children from my wake, hide their innocent eyes
and hope they won't ask, what's that on his sheets, mommy?
[LAUGHTER]
No.
Daylight assaults are impossible.
Some nights when the streets are still I'll
take you under my arm like some long abandoned ghost lover.
And we will walk together.
If someone should see us, I will whistle
and pretend you're not with me.
Once inside that desolate arcade so close to godliness
you will be turned over to machines
until you are purified.
I will inspect old newspapers and ignore your pleading face
pressing against the glass.
[LAUGHTER]
You will spin until the dirt has eroded and your skin has dried.
Then I will pull your body out like a slender pale Christ,
fold you carefully and take you home.
Spread you across the bed still warm and practically virginal.
Too beautiful to sleep with, I'll
curl up on a couch with my oldest blanket.
[LAUGHTER]
Tonight, you can rest.
Tomorrow I understand a carnival is passing through.
[APPLAUSE]
OK.
Thank you.