Japanese Werewolves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Japanese werewolves in sandboxes-
Muddled beneath the overpasses of cars going to
Worship Godzilla up in his
Strange, nose-bleed of a land:
As we sell fireworks between his big toes:
Set up our tents to challenge the model
Tornados—and sell fire-engine cones with our
One grandmother who is still alive,
As the horses eat the cabbages across the valley—
And strange smoke rises up to the artisan gods,
Painting their amusement—
They languish in Topaz above the fire-engine
Chiefs of Taos, New Mexico—
North of Billy the Kid's grave—North of
The Navajo peoples, many who are lying drunk,
Downhill from the Circle K—
Not far from Eagles Nest, the wet séances of
Her bosoms—and almost to Colorado.