All right, this is the last poem I'm going to read,
and I really appreciate you being patient with me
as I figure out how to speak into a microphone.
[LAUGHTER]
[INAUDIBLE] anymore.
Yeah, OK.
All right.
We'll see what I can do.
Maybe I can borrow one of those other books over there
and read some, because this is hard to stand.
"Il Trovatore."
The first time I heard the aria, it
was like sun up after the great storm, the woman's voice
rising, then rising more, as if the want of it
all wouldn't allow her another breath.
Like roadwork when you've punched yourself out,
like Tommy Burns catching my gut hook, like the first
I saw of Etta, like the sound of the crowd in Reno
when Jeffries couldn't go on.
Like going up the steps of the Cafe de Champion
after a crash of gunshots in Etta's room,
like finding Etta on the floor, a halo
of blood getting bigger by the minute,
like the nurses not nursing but crying and pointing
at the gun still hot at Etta's own hands,
like realizing Etta's still breathing,
whispering a libretto on the heels of her last breath.
You did this, Papa, you did all of this.
So that's Jack Johnson.