My God Given Supper Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My hands were on her throat just once:
Perhaps they did not pressure her enough because now we
Are just friends,
Alma: Oh, Alma, aren’t we just friends, just the way the swing-sets
Tell the lies of birds to beautifully undying children
Until they curl them down again
And make them eat the dirt fluttering by so many kicking feet
Into the bellies of dusk that the school buses have caracoled,
Until there is no one left here—in this place,
Alma,
Where I have forsaken my God-given supper: where
I am still awaiting.