This is what I'll be reading on Saturday, for those of you who won't be there (or for those of you who will be there but want a preview):
I come to you, my listeners, as the only
eyewitness of the end of Brianless Lindsay;
she perished nobly, driving 85
down a Carolina highway, getting caught
by cops in Rocky Mount, trying to flirt
her way out of a ticket. It didn't work,
but later that same night, she flirted herself
straight into something worse, the ponderous clod
who wobbles before us now, and ponderous marriage,
a density of man and institution,
a Jupiter whose pull is obligation.
Despite it all, against my better reason,
I want to orbit this gaseous entity:
in there's my oldest friends, who stuck with me
through awful high school, and a girl who helped
make New York bearable, with wit and kindess.
I'll call it late at night. I'll have a beer
with it. I'll be its happy satellite.
