Last Days Of A Great Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can hear the highway—the engines of airplanes,
But not the arc:
I cannot hear the sea, nor hear the beating of
Your heart:
Fallen away from me, back into your grotto:
You are not a house wife, but what
Tragedy:
I would have you bare me like a fruit,
But you have not the basket for me—your husband
Is more equal to you—
Your young children run around you,
Hearts beating like Indians in a game—
My ancestors defeated you and took all of your
Lands—and made this country,
But I've given you fireworks, and you've
Defeated me anyways