The Cool Death Around The Next Bend Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Every day new trout come down the stream
Gossiping about death waiting around the next bend,
In the slower, speckled waters;
I let my feet drift beneath the ripples like a
Pugilist son of a gun on a smoke break,
Wanting to touch the murky sidelines of the muddy
Mothers- They go by so coolly with their shopping
Or whatever they dos- They make just as many friends
In the neighborhood of the effluvious ribbon;
And they only go in one direction, maybe even ending up
In the northern shafts of the Mississippi, always fighting
So that they spindle all their roe like pearly strings
And rosy confection; I dip my fingers in like
A little boy being naughty before dinner, and let that
Glossy spume coat me pulsating like a nursery of
Inanimate heartbeats beneath the deciduous canopy;
But they don’t say anything of it when I eat them,
And there is nothing against god covering up the under-
Developed with my tongue- He is driving in the other
Direction all ready and smart to give another deposition,
Just bought a new house because it’s a buyer’s market;
I count how many times he’s gone by without looking-
Its filled up my fingers- My toes waggle,
And the fishing mothers avoid them, making me second
Guess my real reasons for being in this repose of
Comfortable truancy, when I should be out raking and
Hoeing; But the sun goes by never fearing the cool
Death around the next bend.