Something For Another Church Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Juvenile espionage poking fun at the cadavers on
Some midway of your old haunts, where over the shoulders
Of the fading Ferris wheels, you can hear the lions yawn—
Eating mouthfuls of mosquitos,
Enjoying icecreams of everyman's blood—
The enraptured contraptions of these elements pulling up
The oils that you hadn't felt for the longest of times
And decorating your skin—telling you that you were
Pretty—just trying to set you up for school tomorrow—
It was the same with me,
Even as we were unlucky, your children fell to the ground:
You gathered them up, happy that the water moccasins and
The harpies' mouths were already filled with last
Easter's rabbits—and taking no joy from my words—
Your body already brown and beautiful, knowing that
Again there would be another Christmas—
Feeling that it wouldn't take you long to prepare something
For another Church.