To The Hours Of The Tomb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Horses run around and around
As my mother is coming home:
I want to learn new words for her—
I want to be a cat curled up
Underneath a beautifully lit Christmas
Tree for her:
I don't want to have to go to school tomorrow:
I just want to wait beside the bus stop,
Pretending to be a good by while the lions yawn—
Both of us just to pass the time,
While better off boys make all of the money—
And then I just want to lie in the holly
And croon the larks of the midday soap-operas—
And maybe sometime after thirty I will get a
Wife or graduate high school,
While all of this becomes the living disease of
A living tomb—only so many words
Gathered in hand, like some Easter Eggs gathered
Some Easter by the hands of a blind-
Blind man—
And even with the sun coming up over some graveyards,
And even with some of the beautiful mothers coming
Home—
With the daylight coming down,
The night beckons in its loneliness—and hands grasp
For hands—because no one wishes to be alone
When it comes to the hours of this tomb.