I'm going to read a political poem.
This was written shortly after the Kennedy assassination.
The title of the poem is "December 1963."
The talk is of Johnson and a Congress
which has done nothing.
The accents are Virginia, Maryland, the whining South.
I sit in the back booth of a Chinese restaurant, Washington,
1963.
Before me lie the New York Times, some old classwork,
and a journal I carry everywhere.
I am bemused, distracted even.
All over, things fly in and out of the windows.
Roaches run up and back, across the floor.
What is there to object to?
I drink beer and eat Chinese fortune cookies.
I am heartened.
The revelation is at hand.
Old classwork, objects on a table, all landscapes,
the murals and tapestries.
It is time to go home now.
The new snow, slush, the dark.
Our seven children, my three wives wait for me.
Already, I am embracing them, the snow upon me,
pockets full of presents, certainty, groceries.
I am, on the whole, in step with the new administration.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]