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Well, having sort of brought
the father into the poem,

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I could go back then and read--

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It's funny.

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I haven't read this poem to
an audience for a long time.

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And of course, the problem with
what we call occasional poems--

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poem is written
to an occasion is

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that they wear themselves out.

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And in 100 years,
you have to have

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PhD candidates explain what the
subjects are being referred to.

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But in spite of the fact
that this is an old poem,

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the references seem
almost yesterday.

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The New York Times,
I'm sure you know,

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is something that's kind of
prideful to get up in Boston,

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to get it delivered.

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That means you're
really an intellectual.

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So there's sort of that
overtone to it too.

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And this is called
"The New York Times"

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and the title runs
into the poem.

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"The New York Times".

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"Come rolled, a hero
sandwich, 300 miles North

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of its printing.

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Unfurled over
breakfast gives weight,

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volume, gravity to the puffball
bellies of the world's waifs.

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Mouthfuls of bad news
in with the corn flakes.

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Suez to Saigon,
Prague to Biafra.

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The bacon is worked
as, the coffee

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is black as the day
of my father's death.

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Some days, my father,
hairs sprouting out

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of the V of his pajamas, took
in the sit downs, picket lines,

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Pinkertons, Buddhists, land
lease under his mustache.

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In with the hash browns,
in with the double

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yoked once over lightly eggs.

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Mouthfuls of bad news.

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Nothing has changed, papa.

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The same green suburban
lawns, the same fat life."

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