This is my new one, my latest.
Yeah, my latest.
Nobody's seen it.
Yeah, one friend.
Finally, I had to do it.
I had to show it.
I was just going to save it for the night
and just bore you all with it.
It's long.
I have to ask you to be patient.
It's not real long, but you see, it's one, two, three,
four stanzas, and you've got to pay attention.
And I would appreciate it if you would because I sort of feel
like it sums up all the things I've said in a way,
and yet it doesn't put an end.
You see there is no end and there's no beginning.
There are only in--
there's only an end to things that are trapped in time.
If you live beyond time, then there's no end.
And it took this from--
this title from Chuck Berry's song.
You know, "I'm Almost Grown."
I liked that title.
And this-- I don't know.
Well, I shouldn't have--
I'm not apologizing for it.
I'm just asking you for a little courtesy.
I know it's hard to sit through long poems.
I hate them myself.
But if you pay really close attention,
I think the last line will bring it all together.
But maybe it won't.
Its titled "You Know, Almost Grown."
"I swing up on the sideboard of the old car.
Mother says nothing, just watches me
and sucks on unlit pipe.
The sister is still too young to get away,
dabs a few, silently shed tears with the end of her blue apron.
The red bitch runs behind yapping,
and veers into the charge field where
she chases her tail, and building speed,
makes wider and wider circles until she is only
a streak of fire.
Finally, burning herself to a quick stop.
I ride off to town, wearing the smell
of hay better than I do these starched
coveralls, my dead father's shirt patched under each arm
and the underwear I bought especially for today.
I get off at the feed store, hang around.
The older men who are playing cards on top of a wooden crate
ignore me.
There must be some doings maybe at the cafe up the street.
I carry the bulky card--
sorry.
I carry the bulky cardboard box that holds my things under one
arm, swinging the other.
I see Jake, the bootlegger's car parked in front.
And when I am close, the sun strikes its gray steel
with a hammer.
I shade my eyes from the glare, grope for the door
handle catch it and stagger inside.
The cooler rattles a welcome.
The waitress, May, hollers from the kitchen,
but I can't make out what she says.
I sit on a stool with a box propped up beside me.
Suddenly, Jake comes out, May follow soon after.
Now I understand.
He winks at me.
She takes my order and I watch her behind
as she walks toward the far end of the counter, where
Jake sits waiting, twisting the long gold chain of his watch.
I grunt with satisfaction.
Good I moved.
Left the farm to finish dying without me.
I take out my $10 bill, rub it, feeling all the things I
can buy with it, a striped tie.
One more box of cigars.
A room for a week at the hotel.
Two more days and I start work at the gas station.
Hell, it's great.
I take a big bite out of the hamburger May
has set on the counter.
Jake gets up, May reaches for him.
He shakes his head and walks outside.
Pretty soon, I hear a sobbing.
May, he hurt May.
I go into the small kitchen, she's
lying on a cot jammed against the wall.
I bend over her.
She lifts her hand, touches me in that private place the way
no woman ever has.
I'm clumsy, but it gets done same as anything I guess.
She shoves me, cursing.
Money, she wants money.
I'm nervous.
I clutch the ten then throw it at her.
Whore, bitch, I say.
She yells.
I run, grabbing my box.
In the street again.
The heat, my empty pockets heavy as if filled with coins.
At the gas station, I slip into the men's room
and bolt the door.
I sit on the dusty toilet and lean back against the tank.
Shit, I'm not through yet.
I heard this somewhere and it's true.
It's got to be.
You can't tell a shotgun or a man what to do."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]