So this is a--
I'll be reading from a book called New and Selected Poems
1962-2012.
And I'll skip, but I'll move chronologically.
So this is-- actually, this point
is much later, when I was already in New Hampshire.
And it was--
I moved there in '73, and the mill towns
in New Hampshire and Maine and, well, Massachusetts, too,
had been dying for-- since the late 19th century, finally
croaked in that decade.
And really bleak towns, especially with the weather,
winter weather [INAUDIBLE].
So here's a little poem from that time
called "A Partial Explanation."
"Seems like a long time since the waiter took my order.
Grimy little luncheonette, the snow falling outside.
Seems like it has grown darker since I last heard the kitchen
door behind my back, since I last noticed
anyone pass on the street.
A glass of ice water keeps me company
at this table I chose myself upon entering
and the longing, incredible longing,
to eavesdrop on the conversation of cooks."