I seem to enjoy writing to things
that seem like impossible ideas of other people.
And this next poem was written on an occasion
in which a friend of mine had a visit from his father, who
lived in Texas.
His father's name is Mr. McAdams, Sr.
And he came to San Francisco.
He's a very, well, important kind of businessman.
And he came to buy a sourdough formula,
and he was going to take it to Europe and make a lot of money.
And we were taken to this very fancy hotel and bar
called Le Toile, and we had a conversation.
And Louis, the son, was kind of embarrassed by his father,
but I found him wonderful.
He was genuinely Texas and very much himself.
And he was trying very hard to talk to us about poetry
because we're both poets.
And he said-- and he has another son who's a salesman also,
who sells hardware.
And he said in the middle of the conversation,
"Well, if you're really a poet, isn't it true
that you can write poems about anything?
For instance, nuts and bolts."
And Louis blushed.
And--
[LAUGHTER]
And I kind of thought, "He's right."
So we went on having our drinks.
And then on the way home, I was driving,
and I thought, I've got to write a poem for this man.
So this is called "Nuts and Bolts Poem
for Mr. McAdams, Sr."
"May I put my head on your shoulder, Mr. McAdams, Sr.?
My future takes on bubbles and substance,
like a new sourdough formula, and I
know I can sell it and convince them on the continent
to take a bite with you as my lab, my platonic cigar,
but more whiff to it, more longevity in the face
of disbelief, unlike the ideal and thus the kind of thing
I can trust.
Where do you get your information
about Oswald's letter of tender record?
"How is it living in Dallas?
You have found the key to this century's thickness
in the LA Times.
French wine in Le Toile, the shadow of the Orient
whisking by in his white cotton jacket,
I notice your wife is radiant and exquisitely intact.
Her face--
[LAUGHTER]
"--her face reveals a preference for the emotional.
You wave to her like two flags a swimmer carries in his teeth,
making signals, trying to remember what the code book
said before the boat collapsed.
He wants to say, "Help."
But he gets the syntax of red and blue confused,
and it comes out 'nuts and bolts.'
"Now it's coming out from your mouth, Mr. McAdams,
Sr. You are the carrier of the code.
It presents itself in a white balloon
above the table at Le Toile, above your son's devotion,
above your wife's gold belt shining.
"Next to me, discovering the thread of the nut and bolt
with its solid, visual bite.
How much I need this silvery connection.
How much I want to sit on your lap
and be small again, to tell you about my father who
held me, whose study had a wooden desk with drawers
full of colored chalks, T-squares, compasses,
and little metal pencils with pieces of lead
held intact by tiny nuts and bolts,
which he'd show me how to use, sitting
on his lap, my head against his shoulder,
connecting the points at the edge of the circle with arc
after arc of fuchsia and gold and fishy green pastels that
crumbled and came off in my fingers.
This is sentimental material, Mr. McAdams, Sr.
"And when my father got hit, head on, he was just gone,
all his perfect body.
And when he never came back, we had to lock up.
But here you are, ready for a second round
with your Texas-sized cigar and your sourdough formula,
about to launch a revolution in the dining rooms of Europe
and your belief in the day after next."
[APPLAUSE]
God, someone's leaving already.
[LAUGHTER]
You told me you'd tell me if I went on too long.
[LAUGHTER]
[SIDE CONVERSATION]