Last poem.
A short little dystopic road trip through America.
[LAUGHTER]
It's called, "Trip Hop."
I'll pack my toothbrush, and my cyanide molar, the iPhone,
the car-seats, and a tactical stroller.
I'll pack a snack bag with the Kraft food groups,
and white flags for me, and black for my troops.
I'll pack a fresh pack of Shark double-edged blades,
my boy's Razr scooter, and my girl's blue shades.
I'll pack doses of patience, and some Kevlar smiles,
check our air and our fluids, our gauges, and dials.
And we'll hit I-40 in our old green Accord.
There'll be collateral damage.
And we might get bored.
But I won't need TomTom to know where I'm headed--
a theme park they dream of, a theme park I've dreaded.
[LAUGHTER]
And if we ever get home, and if our home still stands,
I'll unpack my dark heart and Purell my hands.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you very much.