I'm going to finish the reading part with a poem,
and then I'm going to talk a little bit about what
I want to do as poet laureate.
I'm going to finish with a dessert poem for fun.
Thanksgiving is around-- it might as well be here.
Halloween is gone, forget about it.
This is in time for Thanksgiving.
This poem is in two parts.
This is a poem about pie.
Man, you can't lose.
Can't lose.
Write a poem about pie, you're going to be-- you'll be good.
[LAUGHTER]
This is called "Perfect For Any occasion"
"One.
Pies have a reputation, and it's immediate.
No talk of potential regarding a pie.
It's good, or it isn't.
But mostly it is.
Sweet, very sweet, right then, right there, blue and red.
It can't go to junior college, work hard for the grades,
work two jobs on the side.
It can't slowly build a reputation and a growing client
base.
A pie gets one chance, and knows it.
Wearing as makeup those sparkling granules of sugar,
as a collar, those diamond cutouts, bespeaking Fair Day,
felicity, contentment.
I tell you everything is great, says a pie.
Great, and fun, and fine.
And you smell nice, too, someone says.
A full pound of round sound, all ah, all good.
Pies live a life of applause.
[LAUGHTER]
Two.
But then there are the other pies.
[LAUGHTER]
The leftover pies.
The one nobody chooses at Thanksgiving.
Mincemeat?
What the hell is that, people ask.
Pointing instead at a double helping of Mr.
I Can Do No Wrong pecan pie.
But the unchosen pies have a long history, too.
They have plenty of good stories, places they've been.
They were once fun, too.
But nobody wants to listen to them anymore.
Oh sure, everybody used to love lard.
But things have changed, brother.
Things have changed.
That's never the end of the story, of course.
Some pies make a break for it.
Live underground, for a while, doing what they can--
talking fast trying to be sweet pizzas, if they're lucky.
[LAUGHTER]
But no good comes of it.
Nobody is fooled.
A pie is a pie, for one great day.
Last week, it was Jell-O. Tomorrow, it'll be cake."
[APPLAUSE]