And this is kind of an illicit poem.
It's a poem about infidelity, which
isn't about condemning infidelity
nor does it approve of infidelity.
That's not my point.
My point is that it has a flavor like nothing else.
Nothing.
No other.
It's not about getting laid.
It's about having a relationship.
You love the woman you're with.
You're going to stay with your wife.
But for whatever reason, you find yourself
in a real relationship with somebody else, at least
temporarily.
What I wanted to do was to try to catch
the unique tonality of that.
It's like you're making stew and somebody comes in and puts
in some odd thing called, I don't know, what's it--
karm-- anyhow, they all have strange names.
And they drop it in, and your--
that stew is never going to be tasted by you again unless you
find somebody that has some more of this spice.
It changes the whole quality of the stew.
This is a particular kind of condiment in love.
I'm not endorsing it.
I'm just reporting.
[LAUGHTER]
I will tell you that it ended my--
this event ended my marriage, and which
I've never gotten over.
"Trying to Have Something Left Over."
There was a great tenderness to the sadness
when I would go there.
She knew how much I loved my wife, and that we had no future.
We were like casualties helping each other
as we waited for the end.
Now, I wonder if we understood how happy
those Danish afternoons were.
Most of the time, we didn't talk.
Often, I took care of the baby while she did homework--
I'm sorry.
Often, I took care of the baby while she did housework,
changing him, making him laugh.
I would say, Pittsburgh, softly, each time
before throwing him up.
Whisper Pittsburgh, with my mouth against the tiny ear
and throw him higher.
Pittsburgh and happiness, high up,
the only way to leave even the smallest trace,
so that all his life, her son would feel gladness
unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined city of steel
in America, each time almost remembering something, maybe
important, that got lost."