The final poem is my insect tribute.
It's sort of Kafkaesque, and it's called "Crickets."
"Hear them in my bathtub and in my pantry,
rusty hinges creaking.
I turn out the light to listen, rub and scrape
the mystery of their tiny velvet shrieks.
There are nine crickets below the stairs.
Without their song, a vast silence
of lost socks and empty suitcases stretches.
Cricket of luck, I hear you, I cradle your notes in my palm.
Cricket of hardship, I crushed you with a giant shoe.
You sound like a train.
Escape from me, go and wake the dead
who's nervous ears are covered with dirt.
Recluse with legs of grass, black harp
pond for a gambling debt.
Listen, a crutch under each elbow,
your shotgun pulse, fresh bait.
You lay yourself in the shadows like sleek trout.
You feast on book bindings and script.
To say I recognize you makes my head narrow,
and my legs ache with fighting song.
I am all knees and hair shirt.
I come looking when you call."
Thank you.
That's it.
[APPLAUSE]