WEBVTT

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OK, and the last
poem I'm going to do.

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When I wrote my book, I
had a whole lot of poems.

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And I work with my
publisher to organize them.

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And I used the organization
tool that Rainier Rilke

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used with his first
book, because why not?

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Which was ten poems
in six sections.

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And what I figured out
is what I write about--

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and I think what a lot
of poetry must be about,

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is family, friends, God,
country, love, and death.

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And this poem, which is
dedicated to my grandmother,

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really kind of
combines a lot of that.

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It's called "Grandma".

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"Watching last possessions
leaving through the back door,

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she smiles at the 50-year
static rising from the Oriental

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rug she prized.

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Investments against a market
she could not control, nor give

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her concern, eyes steel bright,
gleaming wit and rage at 99,

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she does not notice
the mothball smell

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preserving the flowered silk
purse, the square heeled shoes,

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almost fashionable.

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The rolling metal
chair she calls home

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has replaced the painted
English upholstery

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from which she shared
holidays, celebrating

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the miracle of Oz turning green
from the old black and white

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console.

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Football championships
covered in snow brought

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by the wonder of
electricity, and meals

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served with dull regularity
to distant relatives glowing

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in the warmth of winters
invited 60 degrees.

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Struggling to gift her
life's collections,

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she uncovers memories of
weekends at the drive in.

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Already a grandmother
these 45 years

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past, concealing the drunk
second husband in the garage

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of her faith.

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Happiness experienced
long ago, now balances

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empty on sorrow's edge,
exhausting the clarity of age.

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Watching generations of her
men move cherry wood and ivory

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to a neighborhood
forbidden to her youth,

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she strives to
connect this ghost

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world, hapless and precarious,
to the old ballroom

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of her confusion of a wedding,
dresses, boulevard, and sisters

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devoured by time.

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Ignoring the silence
beyond tomorrow,

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she grapples with the
doctor's cold pronouncement.

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Neither cruel nor suspenseful,
unforgiving in her return

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stare of truth that will
withstand the last pain.

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Her long elderly
face, hair thinning,

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will not be dazzled by his
poor human vision slipped

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through the depths.

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She knows she cannot
win the eternal bet.

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Struggling against the
decrepitude of the empty room

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before her reign, left
to solitary escapes,

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her timid thoughts verge on
the task of living day to day.

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Knowing so long as
an acerbic tongue

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can defend against
nature's incursions,

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she remains in the exile of
a life gathered and lost.

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She's had no more
or less than others.

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She will determine
when it is time to go."

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Thank you.

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[APPLAUSE]

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