An Evening With Garrison Keillor
I stood with them and applauded
in the middle of that maroon seated auditorium.
I stood and banged my hands like cymbals.
You, in modesty or prayer held yours
just beneath your bowed head as
the crowd continued to cheer.
It was then that my eyes warmed
as if to water, but
instead of crying for you,
I think I was welling up
for the America that you gave us,
the fireside conversation,
the warm, log-cabin blanket,
the smoke billowing from some
distant mountain home.
The family dinner whose table
you head, whose hand-sewn linen
covers the country.