And I'm going to end with this city poem
because it's right in my neighborhood.
I had a friend whose wife died of breast cancer
a couple of years ago.
And one of the treatments that she sought
was at UCSF Medical Center, which
is right in my neighborhood.
And I spent a fair amount of time
with this fellow when all this was happening.
Our language is such that the phrase hotspots
can refer to everything from cancer spots, emergencies
of cancer, to air loss.
The title of this poem is "Police."
"How oddly quiet the squad car's light rack, flashing
late tonight, double-parked on my street.
The sea-chilled dark tweaked by blues and reds.
The old sleepy houses--
gap-toothed and aroused like jack-o'-lanterns.
Moments before you phoned to say the doctors
found sooner-than-expected new hotspots
metastasized in her femur, vertebrae, lung, and brain
making, of course, no noise.
Your voice, how calmly familiar with whatever
is worse and imaginable, repeating
what you said just weeks ago about the geometrical rigor
of retributive forces in the universe
while the car throws its important lights
against the uneventful night."
OK, that's it.
Thank you.