I'm Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

Once, preparing to introduce one of my poems, I stood in front of a gallery audience in Philadelphia,

telling a story about meeting the ghost of Betsy Ross and Elfrith's Alley, how an apparition

of a woman in a bonnet with an American flag emerged out of a mist that covered cobblestone

streets. As I talked, I empty my pockets in search of the handwritten poem. Lose change,

cafe receipts, a number two taekondiroga pencil. I looked bedraggled. I wore a wrinkled gray suit. I had spent the previous

four days traveling on a rickety tour bus with a dynamic group of poets, the East Coast leg

of Wave Books infamous poetry bus tour.

When not in hotels or homes of relatives or friends,

we slept in parking lots, imbibed, and talked through the night.

The bus traveled through the country,

picking up poets who then read in cafes, museums, bars, even a prison,

something like a PR stunt for poetry.

But to me, it was a great excuse to gather a merry band of pranksters

who shared a love of language and understood its powers.

I couldn't locate the poem about Betsy, so I continued emptying my pockets,

a pair of scissors, two fake eyeballs, a lobster claw, and a postcard from New York.

The audience laughed.

I kept my impromptu comedy act going, saying,

Until my dream, I had never met a colonial ghost before,

but maybe living in old city had its perks.

Then I reached into my back pocket and touched a twice folded piece of paper.

...