I'm going to break into the subject of poetry
for a brief instant.
And read you the poem that strikes my fancy at the moment.
I really didn't promise myself to be consistent on the theme.
So I'm taking the liberty of changing the subject.
It's called "First Coffin Poem."
In some ways connected with the subject of poetry.
I love you my plain pine box because you also
are a bench with the lid down.
Can you see my friends in a row seated at ease with themselves?
I am in a coffin and it has been stand against the wall
of a living room.
It is just before dinner and several friends
are standing about with glasses in their hands,
drinking to the possibilities that life offers.
The coffin also could be placed as a table in front
of a grand piano, with food and drinks served
on it and an ashtray.
It would be so much simpler, less gruesome
to use an actual coffee table you say, or a real bench.
But that would prove how rigid we must be about ourselves
and cause us to languish caught in a limitation.
We must make one thing do for another.
I am hope in urging you to use my pine box.
Take me to your home when I die imperceptibly.
Without fuss, place me against the wall in my coffin.
A conversation piece, an affirmation of change,
I am sincerely yours.
[APPLAUSE]
Life goes on, ey.