Here's a poem written when I was tired.
You get tired and you get antsy and stuff.
And-- Oh, I will tell you some ethnic information.
You probably want to have some ethnic information.
And I know I am not the only person of color or of any sort,
I imagine, in this room.
But you know when you're on your bus--
you know when you're on a bus, and a drunk black person
gets on, and you pretend you're asleep.
I know you-- have you done this?
My sister, yes, you have.
Well, this was that sort of day, I think.
But I also am a person who believes in signs.
And I have seen many signs in the last year or so
that something is happening in the world.
Something is happening.
And I don't think it's very positive.
And I also believe that civilizations
are lost in groups, but they are saved one on one.
I'm sure of that.
This is called "The Times."
It is hard to remain human on a day
when birds perch weeping in the trees and the squirrel eyes
do not look away but the dog ones do in pity.
Another child has killed a child.
And I catch myself relieved that they are white.
And I might understand except that I
am tired of understanding.
If these alphabets could speak their own tongue,
it would be all symbol surely.
The cat would hunch across the long table,
and that would mean time is catching up.
And the spindle fish would run to ground,
and that would mean the end is coming.
And the grains of dust would gather themselves
along the streets and spell out, these too are your children.
This too is your child.
[AUDIENCE APPLAUDING]