OK.
Here's a poem.
It's kind of a mixture of humor and seriousness.
It's called "And the Trains Go On."
So when I was at Mark Halperin's-- brought his class
to the Poetry Center there next to my mansion.
And I'm in the little bungalow.
And a guy asked a question.
He said, there's no title poem for this book.
The Names of the Lost.
What would be the key poem?
Well, actually, the title is in this poem,
"And the Trains Go On," slightly changed.
But the key poem is not this poem.
This may be the best poem, but it isn't
the central poem of the book.
I don't know if it's the best poem or not.
I like it a lot.
I like this book.
It hasn't been around long enough for me to dislike it.
And it's made me all this money.
"And the Trains Go On."
The Mystic River-- it is a real river.
I don't know.
I mean, I never saw it.
Have you ever been to Boston?
I don't recommend it.
But if you've ever--
[LAUGHTER]
--if you've ever been there, you see these signs--
Mystic River Bridge ahead.
And then, you pass over the bridge, and there's no river.
[LAUGHTER]
And so I said, that's what they mean.
See?
You have to have faith to believe
there's a river down there.
[LAUGHTER]
I don't know.
But then, other people would say, no,
I went over the bridge.
I saw the river.
And how are your eyes?
Well, they're not too good.
OK.
[LAUGHTER]
But I never saw the goddamn river.
[LAUGHTER]
And I went over that bridge a lot.
I couldn't find my way out of that city.
[LAUGHTER]
It was kind of like this reading.
[LAUGHTER]
It's called "And the Trains Go On."
"We stood at the back door of the shop in the night air
while a line of boxcars of soured wheat and pop bottles
uncoupled and was sent creaking down our spur.
Once, when I unsealed a car, and the two of us
strained the door open with a groan of rust,
an old man stepped out and tipped his hat.
It's all yours, boys.
And he went off, stiff-legged, smelling of straw and shit.
I often wonder whose father he was,
and how long he kept moving until the police found
him ticketless-- sleeping in a second class waiting room,
and tore the cardboard box out of his hands,
and beat him until the ink of his birth
smudged and surrendered its separate vowels.
In the great rail yard of Milano,
the dog with the white throat and the soiled muzzle
crossed and re-crossed the tracks, searching
for his master, said the boy.
But his grandfather said, no.
He was sent by God to test the Italian railroads.
When I lie down at last to sleep inside a boxcar of coffins,
bound for the villages climbing north,
will I waken in a small station where
women have come to claim what is left of glory,
or will I sleep until the Silver Bridge
spanning the Mystic River jabs me awake.
And I am back in a dirty work shirt that says, Phil.
24 years old, hungry, and lost on the run from a war no one
can win?
I want to travel one more time with a wind whipping
in the open door with you to keep me company.
Back to long tangled road that leads us home,
through Flat Rock going east, picking up speed.
The damp fields asleep in moonlight.
You stand beside me breathing the cold in silence.
When you grip my arm hard, and lean way out, and shout out
the holy names of the lost, neither of us is scared.
And our tears mean nothing."
[APPLAUSE]