This poem is called "Wishbones."
Every once in a while life begins
to seem so terrible to me that it starts seeming actually
funny.
[LAUGHTER]
And I sort of fall apart and write
one of these surrealist poems, which I did a couple of summers
ago I wrote this.
"Wishbones."
A man once sent home to Chula Vista,
California for his wishbone supply.
Dear mom, he said, please send my collection
of 2,200 wishbones which I have stored in the basement
and been saving since I was in the eighth grade.
[LAUGHTER]
Don't take any because I'm prepared to count them
when I get to New York.
He had just come to New York from Chula Vista
and things weren't as easy there.
You are going to ask me about poetry now
and I am going to tell you the story of another man who
also had a wishbone collection.
In his case, the wishbones were a necessity.
He often attempted to commit suicide.
He was often tempted to commit suicide.
He often felt like a helium filled
balloon that had been cut loose and was aimlessly floating
through the air, waiting for only one thing
his own disaster.
He often felt like a deep sea diver whose hose got out--
got cut on an unexpected rock.
He often felt that he saw the world through binoculars that
still had the lens covers on.
He collected wishbones so that whenever he felt too desperate
too alone with no one wanting him,
he would have one to wish on.
He would then wish that he could find new energy somewhere
that would keep him going so that he would not
have to kill himself.
After wishing on a wishbone, he would
invent a new project for himself and work very hard at it.
And while he was working he didn't have time
to kill himself.
You're going to ask me about my life now.
Why it is such a failure.
Why I've never found a husband, a man to love me.
Why I have no family.
Why no one wants me very much.
And I'm going to tell you the story of a woman who
collects wishbones.
She is hard to talk to.
She feels like a failure.
She sometimes is very beautiful with long hair
and a soft voice, but she is often alone.
And she writes poems to keep from breaking her heart all
the time because she falls in love with men
who don't take her seriously.
She saves wishbones but never wishes on them
until she is desperate.
Then she always wishes and loses because she is not strong
when she said not even strong enough
to crack a wishbone the right way.
Now you are going to ask me about something
that will make me cry.
I will cry.
I will remember a poet who says please tell love to wait for me
and that he has never had to wait for love and wonder
why I who asked for small things got less.
And then I will cry some more and be sad and sorry
for myself.
And everyone will say I get exactly what I
deserve because I don't save wishbones anymore.
Obviously, I don't believe in life.
[APPLAUSE]