Forever Above Her Burning Dish Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So many professions
Hang on the dying Christmas tree: So many lovers
Forgetting to recall the soft scents of echoes;
And the ever present day is in charge,
Role calling, keeping count. The waves are anxious,
Stuttering cavalry;
But I still remember kindergarten, what Chelsea did
To me;
And I am no one, no one but someone still brings me
My lunch.
I saw Diana today and my eyes still work good:
It was beautiful.
The cars came, the cars. They did not become.
No one cares if I am passed out in the aloe. The rebar
Has rusted, and what about my dogs? When are they
Coming,
So I can climb mountains and hear the pulse of my wrist
Rush like the tide over the rocks
Where the sun is like a pulsing skeleton- Where the sun
Is wimbled fish,
Leaping forever above her burning dish.