Another cowboy kind of poem begins with two lines
that I stole from the Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Despite the article in this morning's Wildcat--
which was, I thought very flattering article,
I appreciate it--
I do watch some television.
Only the best of television, however.
[LAUGHTER]
Top of my list is Mary Tyler Moore.
[LAUGHTER]
And the second place is a tie between Bob Newhart and Cannon.
[LAUGHTER]
And what I really don't understand
is why people laugh, because must have known these people
in the past life or something.
I have, later on, a poem about Cannon
which I'd like to read also.
[LAUGHTER]
Well, anyway, I can't explain the whole plot of the show,
and it wasn't necessary.
But about a year or six months ago,
somebody in the Mary Tyler Moore Show,
I think it was Mary herself, said--
they were talking about having a dinner for someone
and what they'd put on the table.
And Mary said, "But who would want silver on the table?"
And Lou Grant, the guy with the big gut, he responded,
"The Lone Ranger wouldn't."
[LAUGHTER]
And so those are the first two lines of the poem.
And I tell them now so you can get the laughs out of you--
[LAUGHTER]
--and I can proceed with the poem.
Actually, it's a kind of a collection of details
of the Lone Ranger, those of you who are my generation
probably remember listening to them on Friday night, 7:30.
And it's a list of details, some of which you'll recognize,
others of which that I've added from my imagination.
It's called "Silver."
And to give you a hint, Tonto appears toward the end.
[LAUGHTER]
"Silver.
Who would want silver on the table?
The Lone Ranger wouldn't.
He would send them down the hill to the corral
to help the wild pigs break apart the blocks of hay
with their noses.
Paw into them for the china with its willow eaten to a lace
by the bridge.
Sitting on a hill with his napkin
spread on the curve of the Earth, troubled by the wind.
He might think that it would blow the crumbs away
all at once in a gust.
A shining fist that dipped over the badlands.
Along the contours of the prairie,
rushed into the cave like a blast salting it.
So that arriving days later in need of ammunition,
pursued by the fat sheriff with twisted logic
who loves his children.
The priest shuffles out ashamed, hands spread, and says,
there isn't any.
That at night, he heard the glowing, perpetual vein leap
out of its crib, fly like a mad patient down the Nehring Tunnel
to the lake, deep in the source of the Earth where
no man can fit.
For the women, he keeps his burnt, flint jaw scraped
fleet-free of sweat.
And that is why, approaching gutted or abandoned houses,
he treads like a boy having forgotten
he once stole apples there.
Confident in the charm of the invisible horse
between his legs.
Ready to spin them off at the touch of a spur.
Turns away at the croaking of a coyote.
His friend with his hand over his mouth
behind the charred banisters.
[INAUDIBLE] rides over to the widow's place, wad of dry algae
that lurches toward him from her shack,
arms spread, white hair wild around the sun of her face,
bathes his wounds, serves him marmalade.
Marmalade?"