The Song Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She is the song, so the old story goes,
The words are the things she doesn’t sing-
She doesn’t park too close to the ocean anymore-
Where the turtles make love,
Where the seagulls glut:
She wears a ring, and keeps a certain dance.
Dresses up in her charms, she drives by the airport,
The roller-rink, broken down- men have become
Tramps,
Alligators fart in the park: She doesn’t sing.
She breathes steadily and when amusements come with
Their seasons, she holds on- She knows what she
Is doing,
And she hasn’t pretended to feel anything worth much
More than her easy situation for so very long.
She is a song that was predicted.
She never puts her feet above her head,
And there are other ways she could be going,
But she keeps to her tune instead.
She is the song- a mammal, a wedding ring struck out
On the baseball diamond,
Another sweaty thing on the paper thin land beneath
The clouds- A sad or happy song,
A metaphor who likes to dine at restaurants, who keeps
Her hair neatly bundled, and kisses her nephew on the
Forehead, a kosher stamp, I wouldn’t want to know
What will become of him;
Exactly like her, ululating across the splay of palmettos,
The steady movement of the feral sea she doesn’t
Answer-
In black and white, in dreams, a song with steady moods,
She holds in hand whispers, tunes;
But to me, never anymore does she answer.