The Blue Wildebeest Is Sometimes Called Brindled Gnu Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Let me feel your truancy- let me be your apple
Scars, your scabrous efficiency- I want to be your airplane
Leaping from your gallant stride;
I’ll take off and I’ll glide and get a good look down your
Dress.
And when I come home, mince me up and make
Apple sauce- If times are hard, use me to nourish your
Child. Wipe me off of her bib in deep snow bound passes
Where you shouldn’t have been in the first place,
But I’ll pull you through. Just toss the scarred and less savory
Bits to the hounds-
Put on a colorful headdress and wear a rubber tomahawk
To fool the clowns;
And now that I am gone, take your men bowling every night,
And drink green vermilion beer until you intend to see swans,
And I will float around the lanes like a feathered prawn,
I will hold recess in your brain,
And like a doctor hit upon the funny bone to check if you’re sane;
And sometimes see the world when you yawn,
And as I go back forth on the brindled terraplane of your lawn,
I will attempt to sell bibles and snake oil to the other souls
Who are real gone.