The Better Half Of The Wishing Bone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I keep on going,
Tending until full season, will it release
A spell, a crooked scar of lightning,
A slightly poisonous kiss,
And awaken the vivid maiden from her
Voyeuristic crypt,
Because I’ve cast the dice so many times,
And tumbled down the stairs,
I’ve procured the better half of the wishing
Bone,
And I’ve lined up army men in honor of
Her,
But is it more likely that I’ve run out of
Important letters,
Vowels dripped until the sheets are wet
Spotted,
Coins of wishing cluttering up the well,
Echoing without recall,
Undoubtedly I’ve said so much, I’ve
Run against myself sleeping,
Drooling on my sleeve,
While she nimbly takes his hand and sails
Out across the hall:
I’ve said so much before I understood
I shouldn’t say anything at all.