It's called "Dancing in Vacationland."
Vacationland is the word that's on the bottom of Maine license
plates.
Maine is Vacationland.
Those of you here in Arizona may not appreciate that.
[LAUGHTER]
Well, Vacationland-- there's so much unemployment,
there's a lot of vacation.
But this actually is about--
where I live there is a town called Searsport, actually,
and that's right on Route 1 on the ocean.
And it's a very poor town.
But there's always a kind of contrast
between the poverty in the backwoods
and then all these cars that are driving through Searsport
they get to Bar Harbor.
Searsport's also called the antique capital of Maine.
Well, there's a lot of antique shops.
And this started this thing.
This too talks about the chicken processors and other people.
"Dancing in Vacationland."
"The people in the houses behind Searsport
are dancing, the people in tin and tar paper mobile homes,
people in plywood shacks surrounded by junk cars
and tires, broken furniture, hungry geese,
and chickens, bored hunting dogs.
In ones and twos, they open their doors,
weaving and bobbing out to the road-- men in gray work
clothes, women in baggy print dresses, the people who
process chickens, stick fingers down chicken throats
as the chickens come dangling down the line,
tearing out wind pipes, tearing out guts, the men and women who
pick meat out of crab bodies, arrange sardines
in little cans, men who work the docks in all weather, who
try to run lobster boats throughout the winter.
These people are now dancing from their houses of wreckage
where they scream at each other and raise ignorant children
and hang onto each other at night.
In threes and fours, they dance toward Searsport and Route 1.
Then, reaching town, they form a single line, dancing
with their arms on their neighbors' shoulders,
dancing in one long row between the shiny antique shops
and fat realtors, one foot up, one foot down,
step to the right, step to the left,
lining the highway, which is crowded with tourists
from the South trying to soak up picturesque views of the ocean.
But this morning, all they can see
are people dancing, these bloated, potato-fed people
dancing, these people who live by collecting returnable
bottles, by picking over the trash at the dump,
by trading their bodies, their wits, their health,
for a few dollars and a shack behind Searsport.
This morning, because it is warm and sunny
and because they just can't stand it anymore,
they decided to start dancing, one foot up, one foot down.
And the tourists from New York stop their cars.
And the tourists from Massachusetts take pictures.
And the tourists from Connecticut
give candy to the little ones until,
at last, the realtors and tour guide directors and lobster
shack owners, until, at last, the alternative lifestyle
farmers, gift shop operators, local chamber of commerce,
town police, state police, and sheriff's department all band
together, and a spokesperson apologizes to the tourists
from the South and begs them to take no more pictures.
And they try to make the people stop dancing,
but the people won't listen and keep
right on dancing, one foot up, one foot down.
So they push them back off Route 1,
push them back to the little roads behind Searsport,
push them back into the tin and tar paper mobile homes,
the plywood shacks surrounded by junk cars.
But through the windows, they can still
be seen dancing, dancing into the night in their little paper
houses until, at last, they lie down and hold on to each other,
hang on to each other, as if afraid of sinking
into the Earth, afraid the whole Vacationland world might
stop spinning beneath them."
[APPLAUSE]
I have one last poem to read.