Anyway, what about breastfeeding?
I bet you were waiting for me to talk about that.
[LAUGHTER]
This is a poem about breastfeeding, in a way,
or I thought it was.
And my wife told me it was actually about sex, which--
I'm an obtuse fellow, so I'm glad I'm married to her.
The poem's called "A Story About America."
If it is late Sunday in the brain, and sunlight falling
on the wall of the food court, and you
tell me your daughter at 18 months
still breastfeeds, and if I, with my slightly younger
daughter, sitting at the next table nod,
but say nothing, nothing while you speak
of the vicissitudes of cracked nipples
and late night feedings, then I am
someone, who is, you can tell yourself,
an odd man, dumb and probably weird.
Weird, weird enough to see in the baffling dear
creature you are a classical subject for a civilized poet
in an innocent land, such as ours would be.
In that poem, you would still be a woman,
but made out now as a beautiful, thinly tall broomstick,
pale but not at all bony, with encircling copper
necklace and threaded red sash.
I have a devil.
I own a devil, my devil.
And he'd defend whoever is saying--
so, all right.
I am strange, a usually shameful matter for an American,
and would make myself even more so to you
by revealing a secret from my life.
It's something.
I watched my wife feed our girl the milk as both seemed
to sleep those minutes until the baby stopped, started crying,
and I took her downstairs, and walked back and forth
on the planked oak floor.
It was 3:31 AM.
And I put the music on low, only to initiate my daughter
into the religion of Bob Dylan.
Will I ride on a mail train, baby?
Can't buy a thrill.
Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when
you're trying to be so quiet?
I want you to know these things, and how we did stomp that tune.
So, what are you waiting for?
Go ahead.
Ask.
Don't hold your breath if you want to breathe,
my beautiful broom.