I know I can't get away with not reading Good Bones.
So here it's funny.
I mean, it's not funny but it's I never really
thought there would be a poem that I felt obligated to read.
It's like a deliciously ill-advised problem to have.
OK.
This is Good Bones.
It's going to be a terrible reading because my voice is--
and if I could just have Meryl Streep here to do this for me,
she does a much better job.
Good Bones.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short and I've shortened mine
in 1,000 delicious ill-advised ways,
1,000 deliciously ill-advised ways
I'll keep from my children.
The world is at least 50% terrible,
and that's a conservative estimate,
though I keep this from my children.
For every bird, there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake.
Life is short.
And the world is at least half terrible.
And for every kind stranger, there
is one who would break you, though I
keep this from my children.
I'm trying to sell them the world.
Any decent realtor walking you through a real shit hole
chirps on about good bones.
This place could be beautiful, right?
You could make this place beautiful.