Just A Butterfly Of A Tomb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spume in the twilight of my senses
While the blind women have been touching the
Apple tree,
And I have been curling my toes—
And then I seem almost a race horse-
And into a forgetful season, a canal to nowhere:
We set up a tent
And sell pumpkins and Christmas trees and
Fireworks.
We drink too much and get heartburn—
We worship a Haitian hoodlum—
While my little sister swears she is going to smell
The bouquet of the armpit of
Africa:
And I cannot blame her—I cannot blame her—
I can only swear to her that I am still right here,
Getting drunk and calling over the satellites to her:
Yes, and that I am yet more beautiful for her-
And the gangsters of her headlights have no say so—
And the broken angels of her all to sudden Hollywood have
No say-so—
They are the same thing as being agnostic—
And then the family finally sets in—and her uncles
Are high-diving—and the last of all is her memory,
But who cares about her—
The bicycles are already home—and then there is no
Memory—
There is just a butterfly of a tomb.