"Death of the Saloon Owner."
I don't know if I should explain.
I mean, so we play a game--
my family and some of my friends frequently--
and we call it poetry game.
And everyone who plays the game has to put a word in it--
has to say a word-- and we all have pencil and paper
and we have to write down all those words.
And then we all have to write a poem using
those words in the poem.
And different poems come out from everyone
even though those same key words are in the poem.
And this is one of the game poems.
"Death of the Saloon Owner."
It accounts for some of the funny words in it.
When he died, those death-provoking China doll
blueberries in his eye socket shrank behind wrinkled wax
and his big heart went beep and bang
with everybody's spinal cord when
they emptied their glasses.
And not even the picture of James Garfield
on a plate above the mirror back of the bar
could call back the Percheron pounding,
dray dragging horsepower of his arteries.
And all along the main line of Center Street
in Union City, Idaho they hung out reeds and cotton batting
dipped in lamp black.
And Ada Mae Moe, the constable's wife,
stuck a crow's feather in the band of her very best hat
and marched with the girls from the Emporium.
[LAUGHING]