This poem is called "Grandma's Man."
And it's sort of about my grandfather,
who has long since gone.
But he was kind of a fool when he was alive.
And because he was a fool, my grandmother
had the reputation of being a shrew,
because this is the only way that they could keep body
and soul together and survive.
She had to do all those things necessary for survival.
And in the poem, I turn him into a painter,
although he had never, ever painted.
"That day she threw the goose over the roof of the cow
shed, put her hand to her lips and sucked, cursing.
Her world ended in blood.
The world ended, though these past 20
years have healed the bite, and that silly goose is preening
in her favorite pillow.
Her husband was a fool.
He laughed too long at lies told by girls whose easy
virtue disappeared when he passed, stumble-bum down
the Sunday street.
Baled hay in his every 40, cows on his allotted range.
His quick sorrel quarter horse all neglected
for the palms of friends.
Then he began to paint life.
His first attempt was all about a goose that bit
the hand that fed it.
The obstacles were great, insurmountable.
His fingers were too thick to grip the brush right.
The sky was always green, and haze spoiled in the fields.
And wind, the rain, the superlative night.
Images came.
Geese skimming to the reservoir.
This old man listened.
He got a bigger brush, and once painted the cry of a goose
so long it floated off the canvas into thin air.
Things got better.
Sky turned white.
Winter came, and he became quite expert at snowflakes.
But he was growing wise, Lord.
His hair white as snow.
Funny, he used to say, how mountains are blue in winter
and green in spring.
He never, ever got things quite right.
He thought a lot about the day the goose bit grandma's hand.
Life seldom came the shade he wanted.
Well, and yes, he died well.
But you should have seen how well his friends took it."
[APPLAUSE]