Flower Devoured Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I sit beside this uncouth firelight;
It is not warm-
It is a fried chicken charade,
So I strum my legs; it is the best I
Can do.
Your windows are dark and on
Silent parade-
It is a death sentence;
It is a train, a wedding procession
Dark and veiled.
Yes, I can smell you in the rain
And on the far side of the cemetery’s
Immortal segregations;
You came last year, or years before
And where you are going
You have long since been,
Deep and queer
Like napalm in the jungles,
Like the pricks of pain of Spanish
Stars eclipsed by waves
And drowned ponies
Of legionnaires and knight-errants,
Your tresses just the mane
Of a green girl sinking:
If I turn away,
Where will your fire be then,
Or will the seas of cars devour you,
And smooth you over until you
Are fine enough to hang in
A kitchen:
If that is your cell,
And it suits you, then allow me one
Last howl,
And a fling with you atop the corniced
Top of a crocodile as it cries
Across the canal,
To deposit me at the banks of university,
Where I turn and watch you devoured,
Your pedals plucked by the
Curious game I keep about you.