Like Cats Who Have To Put Things Down Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I pay for anyways: and I die, or I go
To lunch:
Skipping stones over the haunches of bicycles, while
No one from my school can remember me:
I cannot remember myself:
I am selling Christmas trees: Now look at this pretty crowd
Lost in the chalky bleachers before the hurricane:
What do they have to say for themselves:
They are just as numerous as the stars, even as they divide,
And the sharpened tips of every wave,
Colliding, returning to the shoulder blades of their sorority:
And perhaps some lines are good, but it
Is too made up,
Like frantic legions along the white walls of some moon attired
Graveyard,
Panting like cats who have to put things down-
And black people skipping rope and making promises of
Banishment all across the wispy tenements and gunny smoke of
Some woebegone and waylaying ghost of a town.