The Most Beautiful Of The Littlest Girls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Stone thrown from the hands of the outbound
Night—and now where are all of my old students—
I do not know what they are doing,
But I like to wish that they sleep—
And the angels give them some peace,
Anointed over their oily heads—
Successful or not,
It will soon be the graveyard for them—
And all things, just as the night makes love
To its valentines—
And the world scrambles over its busy voids—
Not even one or two words can survive from
The lips of the ant mound in the middle
Of the school yard while
All of the better reasons are on summer vacation—
And the teachers in their corporal forms are
Slumbering in their living rooms and dens
Watching television as if it was Christmas—
And the most beautiful of the littlest girls
Have found their own reasons
To fall asleep on the floor
And, closing their eyes,
Never imagine to call the boys they
Are already sick and tired of falling in love with.