And I'm going to end with this poem called
On Our Way for Linda.
This was written about traveling from my previous home
to my new home in Tucson, and it was
sort of an unsettled time in my life,
and it's trying to assert something positive out
of this change.
A lot of times we just pack up and move and go someplace else
and try to start over in a better way, and that's
what this poem is about.
On Our Way.
Delano, MacFarland, Famosa.
I name them and they vanish.
Little towns that have listened so long to fenders
crumpling, flying glass, to tires unraveling and men
catching fire.
My black shepherd and my woman sleep beside me on the seat
as boxcars loaded with sugar beets drift by,
their frail root hairs burning on the broad San Joaquin.
Is this what I wanted, dreamed of, propped against the door
post, watching the big moon sink into the quiet leaves
of the fig orchard?
Is this it?
To be swinging through the lanes of dense heat,
looking up into the glazed eyes of truckers,
or down on a red dog, twisted like a rag.
Yes, this is what I wanted.
To be here, knowing my destination, knowing it's
a long way off.
Lebec, Gorman, Castaic, gas stations
moored to the dead hills.
Fill it, the man asks, greasy fingers
fumbling through khaki pockets for a smoke.
Beaumont, Cabazon, Indio.
This is what you wanted, and here we are, pilgrims
under the late sun.
A would be evangelist badmouthing
the silence, a river of white water
and a barrel disappearing over the falls.
Let's close our eyes and press into this grille of light
until the dead road opens like a fern.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]