Thank you.
I've got my timer so I know how long I have
and I hope nobody calls during a poetry reading.
OK, well thank everybody for coming out on Sunday morning.
Really appreciate it.
We're kind of warming up for the day
and I hope you enjoy the festival.
It's a great festival.
And so because it's Sunday morning, I thought I would look
and I actually found something that would fit.
It's called Sunday Morning poet.
If I were searching for tradition
at the turn of this new century, I
would walk to the end of my driveway on Sunday
morning in my underwear and sandals
wincing at the chill in winter or feeling
for a still breeze and spring.
Stretching my calves up the hill to my door post,
I would tell those looking for clues to our postmodern
commonality to observe me sitting at kitchen table,
drinking coffee, eating rye toast lightly buttered,
listening to public radio or folk or jazz or pre-game talk.
Multitasking through ears never closed
and eyes not wanting to open.
I would look up at my examiner and point
to my absorption of book reviews, editorials,
and the gossip scandal news.
Declaring, do not seek truth in history and public documents.
This is who we are.
This is all you need to know.