OK, and the last poem I'm going to do.
When I wrote my book, I had a whole lot of poems.
And I work with my publisher to organize them.
And I used the organization tool that Rainier Rilke
used with his first book, because why not?
Which was ten poems in six sections.
And what I figured out is what I write about--
and I think what a lot of poetry must be about,
is family, friends, God, country, love, and death.
And this poem, which is dedicated to my grandmother,
really kind of combines a lot of that.
It's called "Grandma".
"Watching last possessions leaving through the back door,
she smiles at the 50-year static rising from the Oriental
rug she prized.
Investments against a market she could not control, nor give
her concern, eyes steel bright, gleaming wit and rage at 99,
she does not notice the mothball smell
preserving the flowered silk purse, the square heeled shoes,
almost fashionable.
The rolling metal chair she calls home
has replaced the painted English upholstery
from which she shared holidays, celebrating
the miracle of Oz turning green from the old black and white
console.
Football championships covered in snow brought
by the wonder of electricity, and meals
served with dull regularity to distant relatives glowing
in the warmth of winters invited 60 degrees.
Struggling to gift her life's collections,
she uncovers memories of weekends at the drive in.
Already a grandmother these 45 years
past, concealing the drunk second husband in the garage
of her faith.
Happiness experienced long ago, now balances
empty on sorrow's edge, exhausting the clarity of age.
Watching generations of her men move cherry wood and ivory
to a neighborhood forbidden to her youth,
she strives to connect this ghost
world, hapless and precarious, to the old ballroom
of her confusion of a wedding, dresses, boulevard, and sisters
devoured by time.
Ignoring the silence beyond tomorrow,
she grapples with the doctor's cold pronouncement.
Neither cruel nor suspenseful, unforgiving in her return
stare of truth that will withstand the last pain.
Her long elderly face, hair thinning,
will not be dazzled by his poor human vision slipped
through the depths.
She knows she cannot win the eternal bet.
Struggling against the decrepitude of the empty room
before her reign, left to solitary escapes,
her timid thoughts verge on the task of living day to day.
Knowing so long as an acerbic tongue
can defend against nature's incursions,
she remains in the exile of a life gathered and lost.
She's had no more or less than others.
She will determine when it is time to go."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]