You wrote—in your actual handwriting—(not typeface,

 not ether): “Tell me your stories.” Wrote it on real paper

 I held in my hand. The “t”s, sir, of your handwriting

 were all lassoed. Lassos mean, “Of this I’m sure.

 I give you my word. It’s a promise.” Each t tied to its h.

Connection. We are tied together, this is your hand.

 As it is written. Take my hand, yes we can.

Someone next to me at the theater-- (it was a drama)--

 someone who reads hands saw in the tv close-up

 the open palm of your hand. Saw your lifeline, that line

 in our hands. She said it was long & unbroken.

 Did you hear that? long and unbroken, the line of destiny

 in your hand. She said, “He’s going to make it,

 you don’t have to worry anymore.” It’s a promise.

 We’re all going to the Promised Land,

 our country ‘tis of thee.

 My sister said, “Can you write an inaugural poem?”

 “No way, sister,“  Never did an occasional before,

 don’t know how. I’m old, too old, I tell you, to learn

 something new. Old enough to remember

 President Roosevelt—(that’s Franklin, not Theodore).

On the other hand, we’ve lived to see this!

 That’s what the people cried about—

 the brothers and sisters in that young-again night.

 You, Mr O, been saying all along: “Yes you can.”

 And what is an O but a circle holding hands?

 Connected. You are reaching out your bless’ed hand

 to America and all our hands reach out to you

 who are the lasso, the promise, the lifeline

 and the destiny. That’s my story.

 As it is written. Amen.