Now, about this time in the evening
I like to read a poem dedicated to my friend Tom Lynch.
He's an undertaker.
I think everyone should have a friend who is an undertaker.
And he kindly took me around his funeral home
in Milford, Michigan.
And that was a singular delight.
And I wanted to then write about it, which I duly did.
I wrote this very short poem, which is a kind of riddle.
Very simple riddle.
And I read this poem recently in a boys school in England.
And I just thought they were kind
of losing their concentration.
So I said look, here's a competition for you.
The first person who works out what this poem is about
gets a free book.
And this is very patronizing because they were smart.
And it was also very stupid because I was halfway
through the first line and somebody put their hand up.
And I said, yes.
And they told me the answer.
I threw the book at him.
I said, what in God's name did you--
because, you know, I hadn't even started the poem.
He said, oh, well, you read that poem last time you were here.
[LAUGHTER]
So no free books tonight.
"Dead Wood," for Tom Lynch.
"Huge, glossy beetles doze in this room.
Each with a lifted wing case the size of a car door.
They are only fed once then close themselves with a click.
Too heavy to fly in their mahogany and oak.
They have grown handles."
[LAUGHTER]