Back To Work On Monday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

By sweetened virtue I start out, dashing as the cavalier
Knight:
The butterflies cut from the paper from the womb of a
Beautiful girl’s diary:
And I read her out under the sun, as I wait for the bank robbers
To drive by:
This night is pillaged by lucky horses, while I have never
Been by Sarah’s grave,
Or my grandfather’s grave, but I know that my one good grandmother
Is buried atop the hill underneath the welded cross at the northern
End of the summit of the Springerville Cemetery:
Sharon, she is buried just above her little house, across the churches
And the swings that I have articulated back and forth on the
Other side of her;
And you never even saw or knew her body’s warmth, Sharon:
Sharon: but your body is still sparking like a wish culled from
A cloudy day:
And I wonder what is was that made you choose the man you love;
And if I had just one wish rubbed from the gilded belly of a genie,
Then Sharon, that wish would be for you love,
But I still have to go back to work on Monday.