The Absolute Queen Of Beasts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nothing returns from this inky rejoin:
The cradles going to sleep in her mountains,
The airplanes and
Traffic too: all going to sleep, inebriated
And burped off of her,
And she considers it to be good, as she pats
The sheet metal backs,
As her eyes roll cookie dough for tomorrows
Lunch.
She has stopped by early sometime before
Noon just to sell some gambits to me,
And I walked out and followed her around like
A friendly rabbit after a puppy dog,
And she led me like a wolf leading its lamb,
Smacking its jaws and dusting its chaps.
Now that tomorrow is over she isn’t even sure that
I live,
While into her soft bed of long legged mountains
Her steadily melting stream of patrons gives
And gives,
And never seem to wear out their admiration for
The absolute queen of beasts.