Playing Football In My Graveyard Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Perfect on my imperfection, you fall:
I close my eyes but you are real, traveling
Effortlessly up your hills and then
Down,
Basking all the dogs, and their stones so
Round;
And I’ve made up these words to disavow you,
But you are not something I can take out to eat;
So you are real,
And I lie the last of my bouquets at your feet;
And my parents are so lonely after your passing;
It’s as if you’ve taken the last airplane,
But my grandmother lies unweeping the kinder
Weathers of her kind:
They are the kind that used to know you, but
Will know you no more,
And they are all the kind that I’ve been waiting for;
And you slip over my head like a child in
A dress;
And you go over the sea, and the women in their
Cars:
You go so far as to come around again
To watch me playing football in my graveyard.