Your Chosen Foxes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Angels half asleep in forgotten neighborhoods
Because they’ve been here for so long,
Practicing each of their religions,
Waiting as if the wind veins of your old school
To return
With the frogs open throated,
Like paper bags in movies; and I don’t know
How they feel
Just because
You are not going home,
And this is my heart all venal and chartreuse,
My greatest organ is just a mirage;
It has a harelip,
And it is filled without a care,
Cyclical, pantomiming like a ride at the fair
A zoetrope of trained animals out in your driveway
Waiting for you to come;
And maybe you used to tell the editor of
The school newspaper how you felt about me:
Maybe you skipped lunch and danced
For rain,
And made your hapless clays into something useful,
Like a goddess;
But you are gone now, gone with the surcease of time,
Gone on a forever trip to the mountains,
And this is just a poor attempt to call you back,
To looking you up,
But the angels are evaporating like apple pies in sweet
Tinfoil,
And the buses have stopped coming around suspecting
That now that you are just crying wolf,
Your grapes so much sweeter on the other side of the
World,
Hung low enough for your chosen foxes to eat.