I have two more poems.
This is a "Commencement Speech Delivered at the Buncombe County
Institute of Elevator Inspectors."
[LAUGHTER]
Lately, I've been thinking about things lifted into the sky.
Szymborska gets lung cancer and is whisked into the clouds.
Muhammad Ali floats the way he always said he would
But this time doesn't return to the ground.
Stephen Hawking shuts his eyes
And merges with one of the black holes
he so adored while on Earth.
Each year this is more frequent.
David Bowie, Toni Morrison, Stan Lee, onto the platform.
The doors close, up they go.
Meteor showers, sun halos, occultations.
There have been others less publicized, less luminous
figures,
But absences I feel nonetheless.
I've been told they're up there as well:
My uncle, my mother-in-law, Blair, Jason, Stephanie, Chris,
Dark matter, moon dust, haze across the firmament.
The work behind the scenes to get them
from down here to up there is invisible and precise.
As elevator inspectors, you must examine the endless chain,
the lifting drum, the tension pulley, the counterweight,
Double and triple check the sling, the governor, the buffer,
the sheave.
Ascension is harrowing, grief is heavy.
The hoist cable must never waver.
It must bear the unbearable.
Your vocation is difficult and unglamorous.
I commend you upon your arrival at this threshold.
Next week I'll go into the hospital
to have a minor procedure,
A routine surgery to remove a small area of concern.
I'll walk through two double doors, press a button,
And if all goes well, go up and then come back down.
I have no idea how this operation will unfold.
I'm full of doubt, rockslides, and falling blackbirds.
But I continue because I believe that you have faithfully
scrutinized the guide rail, the load sensor, the limiter.
When any of us step into an elevator
We know the shaft around the car is just emptiness,
A stillness overhead, a breeze swept, darkness,
everything motionless, quiet.
Then far above, some sleek engine begins to whir.
Its wheel begins to turn.
[APPLAUSE]