Cruelly Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Going down to do myself, cruelly;
Everything you told me was a thrill-
Amusement parks,
The sounds for dogs, and boys with
Blue eyes, pooly;
But I can’t make up lies,
Your lips were pursed and surly
And you didn’t wait at the bottom of the
Hill meant for graveyards and for temples,
What god would not will. Palominos glide
So lightly- Your father is a pilot, your boyfriend
A harness racer, three feet tall,
And I didn’t meant to get in the way of your
Dinner bill. Surely, you’re so happy,
You say so in your will. What are you doing
Now about the paycheck on your brow,
I should not think to wonder.
My hands as light as air don’t disagree,
They are leaving to shake the forest, to hang
The goose on its tree;
And you have to be so silent with your metal on
The street; it is precious metal pressed by precious
Feet;
And the windows are left open, the felines flicker inside,
The day is brought out to splendor,
But we can’t go on forever; though, cruelly,
You will always be a rose between the thorns, thus abide.