The Shell Of A Supposedly Beautiful Thing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I pass the bottle of laughs towards the
Tiger who is no longer leaping.
He has retired from his ring of
Predictable flames—
The instructions his parent, master,
Teacher gave to him every day after
He got off the bus. He was kept so busy that
He was never allowed to marry—
Juvenile in mind, he never produced great
Art—and now his yellow coat is like
The ash only dogs can see—
But that will keep him for a little while.
When it rains it seems like birthstones,
And the echoes were once like the footsteps
As he passed through China—
But he never came across the top of
The mountain to worship the footsteps of
Buddha—but for a moment the school
That trained him is empty,
Like the shell of a supposedly beautiful thing.