Like A Wolf Over Her Stone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Evangelically short,
She sat where she started:
It was enough to rough me up,
To see her ruffled:

And my bad side was as good as
Silken lace,
But my good side had been erased,
Caracoled into the hungry sea;

And she scissored for awhile,
Doing short hand,
But had already made up her mind
To jump the bones more mother of pearl than
Me,

But the lady in the graveyard in the dressing
Room of worms then dust,
Wanted what good was left in me,
Asked, already engorged,
Why hadn’t I come so she could put the words
Of her gravestone in me;

And I lounged all alone like a wolf over her
Stone in the great burned out center of the dead city.