WEBVTT

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This poem is called
"Grandma's Man."

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And it's sort of
about my grandfather,

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who has long since gone.

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But he was kind of a
fool when he was alive.

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And because he was a
fool, my grandmother

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had the reputation
of being a shrew,

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because this is the only way
that they could keep body

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and soul together and survive.

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She had to do all those
things necessary for survival.

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And in the poem, I turn
him into a painter,

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although he had
never, ever painted.

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"That day she threw the goose
over the roof of the cow

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shed, put her hand to her
lips and sucked, cursing.

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Her world ended in blood.

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The world ended,
though these past 20

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years have healed the bite, and
that silly goose is preening

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in her favorite pillow.

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Her husband was a fool.

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He laughed too long at lies
told by girls whose easy

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virtue disappeared when he
passed, stumble-bum down

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the Sunday street.

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Baled hay in his every 40,
cows on his allotted range.

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His quick sorrel quarter
horse all neglected

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for the palms of friends.

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Then he began to paint life.

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His first attempt was all
about a goose that bit

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the hand that fed it.

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The obstacles were
great, insurmountable.

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His fingers were too thick
to grip the brush right.

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The sky was always green, and
haze spoiled in the fields.

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And wind, the rain,
the superlative night.

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Images came.

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Geese skimming to the reservoir.

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This old man listened.

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He got a bigger brush, and
once painted the cry of a goose

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so long it floated off
the canvas into thin air.

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Things got better.

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Sky turned white.

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Winter came, and he became
quite expert at snowflakes.

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But he was growing wise, Lord.

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His hair white as snow.

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Funny, he used to say, how
mountains are blue in winter

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and green in spring.

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He never, ever got
things quite right.

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He thought a lot about the day
the goose bit grandma's hand.

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Life seldom came
the shade he wanted.

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Well, and yes, he died well.

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But you should have seen how
well his friends took it."

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[APPLAUSE]

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