My Dead Grandmother's Wall Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There seems to be a new wash in the
Pageantry of bones—
I am still standing right here for you against
The lamentations of the river,
But I have become just another kind of sick tourism—
Something's tragedy to be gawked at
Through the skies beneath the highway—
Gutted, as I wait for you to remember why it was
That I became this way for you—
After the tornados had swallowed all of the trailer-parks
And all of their colored televisions—
And I walked out for you like a firewalker through
The unbelievable pains of the midways of
Your grottos—
And, drowning, I couldn't help noticing how long you held
Onto his hand—
Watching, even when I was nothing else—
And the paintings still held onto the illusions of my
Dead grandmother's wall.