Of Who Fed The Lions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I try another thing while
The girls get up and go to work,
Segregated in the caesura of each wave;
I don’t know what I’m doing
Myself,
But once affluence sets in then every night
Is balmy and well-manicured
And there are places to go in our car;
Dinner dates and such,
The power lines garlanding the city and giving
Of the glows of what we should do;
And the side of your face is a Junoesque
Profile,
And my liver has turned green.
Our daughters are ghosts garnished with holly
Boughs- Think, my dear, of all the people
Who died before us,
Of who fed the lions;
And we all have our troubles, our accomplishments,
Our fresh secrets in the repeating dark-
I know you wanted to be famous. I used to dream of
You as I tramped and slept in stock cars
Hidden by tall grass;
But you couldn’t known me- I tried to find you
In Hollywood, but the hills had burned over and lost
Their role in the play,
And you kissed me goodbye, and moved to Colorado
Where you fell in love.