And this one is "Second Avenue in Winter."
I live in New York, I think that she mentioned.
And in this heat, this poem is a little incongruous,
because there's a lot of snow here, but I'll read it anyway.
"Second Avenue in Winter."
"In the wintry mix, guys are digging up Second Avenue
with monster trucks.
We part ways after the flick, much too violent for our taste
tonight, and now we're out $8.75 all around.
Bam!
Bam! go the shots in my head, but I'm too tired for danger.
So I don't walk near the three guys who have pulled over
to piss on my block.
I just don't feel like seeing their pricks at this late hour,
nor walking through their steaming streams of urine.
At home, Stephen Hawking is aslant in his wheelchair,
speaking through a box.
He's telling us about black holes,
about how they were discovered on a blackboard.
How we may be waiting for a signal
sent one hundred years ago, and it'll take a hundred more
to send one back.
So how do we stay interested over that kind of time?
[LAUGHTER]
Now that there's no more wine, and it's time for bed,
and it's such a comfort to be less than a breath."