Next poem is also a love poem.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
It's called "The Coming Out of Ourselves Party."
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
You wanted to be strong.
I wanted to congratulate all of us on giving in.
Gum wrappers or wriggling in the sun,
Mrs. Mendoza's voice rattles around Jefferson Street
two times and ends spinning like a BB in a can.
Then I thought of all the women I had ever had.
I appreciate the patronage, thanks for kindly dropping in.
But the King relinquishes his zither.
We were last together at the Colonial Inn
in Concord, Massachusetts.
We had a free television, we were
allowed to park without charge and given a direct dial
telephone.
Sixty air conditioned rooms, including
the Thoreau room, the Emerson bar, and the Hawthorne John.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
You wanted to have integrity.
What a day, the clerk said.
The sky is just disheveling overhead.
The pulse of the Earth is slowing.
On this street, there is not even a radio.
The days continue to eat each other.
The doors grow little and thick.
Always, finally, we are untouched.
This was to be the coming out of ourselves party
to which we should all look forward.
This was to be bigger than life.
This, the inside story.
[AUDIENCE CLAPPING]