It's a happy book.
[LAUGHTER]
In a real way--
I mean, you look at the two covers
and it shows a trajectory, doesn't it?
I mean, here's a pretty dark book.
And this is like gray.
[LAUGHTER]
That's where I'm moving in my work.
This book is grim, but it is a pretty accurate representation
of how I grew up.
I was raised in some pretty intense neighborhoods
in Massachusetts and Connecticut.
And it's funny when you talk to people
from outside of New England, you say,
I grew up in Massachusetts.
And they think like, mm-hmm, you grew up in Massachusetts--
like you went to Choate or something.
Do you even know what that is?
I was like, yeah, OK, right, yeah, yeah.
And I'm like, no, not really.
I taught this class in that room up there yesterday,
which was such a gift.
The students were really talented and really present.
And I was teaching about something
I'd never really taught before.
And afterward, one of the students stayed after and said,
this poem from your first book really meant something to me.
And so I said, well, OK, I'll read it.
I'll read it at the reading.
I'm not even sure if she's here.
Is Helen here?
Maybe not.
Anyway, Helen, if you see this on YouTube, this is for you.
Also, shout out to Eric, my guy.
I played some-- I'd had a bike ride today,
and I played some disk golf.
Do you know what that is?
Yeah.
OK.
And I met Eric on the course, and I bullied him into coming.
And he came, my guy.
Thanks for being here.
Yeah, Eric.
Yeah.
Graduating, right, a senior?
Graduating.
Yeah, yeah, congrats man.
Aerospace engineering, is that right?
Yeah.
Wow.
OK.
Cool.
Anyway, this poem is called "Graduation."
I'll tell you this, but I don't usually say this.
It was actually-- it wasn't graduation, my real life.
Sometimes, I change details.
This was my Eagle Scout ceremony.
[LAUGHTER]
But it's too embarrassing to admit that, so I don't.
In the poem, I just pretend it's my high school graduation.
Anyway, "Graduation."
When you showed up drunk as hell,
humming tunelessly to yourself, and slumped
against the auditorium's faux wood paneling.
When you fumbled in the pockets of your coat,
fished out a cigarette, brought it to your lips.
Then realizing for the first time where you were, tossed it
away and said, fuck it, loud enough that everyone
turned in their seats.
And a friend elbowed me and asked if I knew you.
I shook my head and spent the next hour
wondering why I was so glad you came.
You who slept each night in your battered van, who
skipped meetings and lied to your sponsor, who
still called your ex-wife every day, restraining order
be damned.
You shouldn't have been there either.
100 yards was the agreement after you
gathered all the meds in the house into a shoe box
and threatened to take them.
You would come regardless.
You were there.
And I was there.
And when I walked the stage, you hollered my name
with a kind of wild conviction, then said a second time,
less convinced.
And I thought of that night, when the cops came,
and you, unashamed of the fuss you caused,
of your desperate public struggle for happiness,
kissed me on the head once, twice, and went quietly.