Maybe Whatever Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I cannot sing at funerals, even when its you
I’m looking for, even when it is down hill,
And the cars are parked on ledges above us, facing us;
And there is sweet graffiti and talking brail by the
Lip, the wrought iron teeth are bighting pensively,
The cats are walking like tight-rope acrobats,
Like French criminals, or whatever.

The dog is stuck.

I don’t know why I continue with it, my performances
For all the deaf: The schoolyard is empty, the sky is closed;
And I lay down the empty book beside this tombstone;
Soon to be my grandmother, or whoever;
They say the same thing, and the children are strung out like
Stolen jewelry lined out through a worn pocket,
Like flowers thrown after her tresses, but not really any of
That at all;
They have gotten away.

I say this because I am scarred, and want to be beautiful,
Anonymously kicking all the waves;
And I want to remember that I have been to Spain,
But have not done anything for absolute years:
I do this so I can occupy her bed on another airplane, though
She doesn’t say to me at all, now you can swim like a sturgeon,
Now you are quite immaculate and in time for Christmas;
And I am your river
Or whatever,
Next year, maybe, next year....