Hey, podcast listeners, it's Anne.

Four years ago, the poet Richard Blanco stepped up to the podium in front of the National Mall,

Barack Obama on one side, Joe Biden on the other, and he read this poem.

Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, America, one today.

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, peaking over the smokies,

greeting the faces of the great lakes, spreading a simple truth across the great plains,

then charging across the Rockies.

Richard Blanco was the youngest, first immigrant, first Latino, and first openly gay inaugural poet.

But he's in a different mood today.

In the final episode of our News from Poem's series, he joins us from his small town, Bethel Main, to read a new poem

written just for us and you. November eyes on Main Street. The morning after the morning of

November 8th, for the first time I doubt even the sun as I drive east down Main Street, radio off to Amy's diner.

She bobby pins her hair, smiles her usual, good morning, but her eyes askews say something

like, you believe this? And she pours my coffee without a blink. Three cups, black and a muffin in me.

So I head up prospect to see Tom at my bank, cash a

measly check from some grand magazine for some grand poem of mine, loaded with some grand words

like transcend, as if my inked verbs could bend, a river's will, shuffle stars, change the fate of our nation,

or the color of Tom's eyes, thinking what I think of our reflection on the bulletproof window,

asking, so now what, Mr. Poet?

I can't answer us.

I can only remember today I'm supposed to buy a rake, light bulbs, nails to hang my dying

mother's photos.

...