All right.
I'll read another poem.
See, I have a set list, but I just--
I'm not going to listen to it.
[LAUGHTER]
"The Story."
"My mother opens my bedroom door,
and gags on the overwhelming scent of urine.
Like something died, she says in the story that follows me
to every family gathering.
A hound locked on the scent of a wandering child.
It was a phase my mother said lasted until I was 14,
or around the time I started doing my own laundry.
She goes on to tell them about the piles of wet clothes hidden
in the back of my closet.
Like something died again, we all know the story.
A boy gets touched, and then ruins the upholstery.
Or a boy rubs himself in the back of the school bus,
until his jeans become a shade darker.
I never told my mother I was molested.
Never told her that story.
The one where a boy finds the tongue 10 years later,
fermenting in a jar.
I never told her how someone reached inside me,
and turned on all the faucets."