WEBVTT

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All right, this is the last
poem I'm going to read,

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and I really appreciate
you being patient with me

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as I figure out how to
speak into a microphone.

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[LAUGHTER]

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[INAUDIBLE] anymore.

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Yeah, OK.

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All right.

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We'll see what I can do.

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Maybe I can borrow one of
those other books over there

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and read some, because
this is hard to stand.

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"Il Trovatore."

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The first time I
heard the aria, it

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was like sun up after the
great storm, the woman's voice

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rising, then rising more,
as if the want of it

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all wouldn't allow
her another breath.

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Like roadwork when you've
punched yourself out,

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like Tommy Burns catching
my gut hook, like the first

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I saw of Etta, like the
sound of the crowd in Reno

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when Jeffries couldn't go on.

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Like going up the steps
of the Cafe de Champion

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after a crash of
gunshots in Etta's room,

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like finding Etta
on the floor, a halo

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of blood getting
bigger by the minute,

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like the nurses not nursing
but crying and pointing

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at the gun still hot
at Etta's own hands,

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like realizing Etta's
still breathing,

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whispering a libretto on the
heels of her last breath.

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You did this, Papa,
you did all of this.

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So that's Jack Johnson.

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