To Be Meat For Buzzards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Children who go on fieldtrips always go
But always come back again- and you are their
Mother Alma;
And there are things inside you I will never know,
That I can never go too, beneath the spindling brown
Transoms of
Your deep, deep eyes; and though I have made love to
You and held you hand,
You let the other fellow in more constantly- and your
Heart gallops through a cool, cool night,
Displaying itself through the voids of your sub consciousness;
And it seems at last to find peace
And grazes off the coral that is too beautiful to be meat for
Buzzards.