Saint Louis, Missouri Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In a graveyard surrounded by sweltering
Black children, the poetess lives—
Grand-eyed by the oak trees
That make swimming pools of shadows—
And the airplanes flicking like
Matches over the tornados yet to
Appear in
The daydreams of the heartland,
Or any place I once happened into
But was too scared to remain—
Even with promises that my words could
Be beautiful,
And all of the lush architectures grown
Over with all of the histories of
Unpromising murder—
Alone with my dogs in such places—
Only the telephone poles above us,
Like mistletoe for false angels—
And the ways through the woods
Glittering,
Like Christmas time on a summer
Afternoon.