Bellefontaine Neighbors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I beat the Lord at his own game,

I snuck into the graveyard before my shift,

Saw the pawns but I let them live;


I kissed Sarah amidst the awful tulips,

And my aunt applauded and swung her hips.



I proceeded him blindly down into my crypt,

Where he lets me live;


And above it rained and the shadows moved in

Fawning and jubilant, playing bare naked games,

Paddy-caking and hop scotching the red faced tenements;


Sometimes I might hear them whistling feral when the day is

Particularly clear and the cemetery grass like follicles of

A bassoon’s ear brings it to me;


And the Lord just stands there knowing

That all the old masters are dead, and the city is held up

By liquor and inanimate dreams, and murder;


And we are where we belong, just a little further down,

Under the quick-witted feet of ants, and the pullulations

Of the sweaty parade grounds;


And My Lord, what is he going to do about it?