Waning Marble Spine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Harrowed to the acanthine bone-
You once was a conquistador,
Sister a teacher to the oldest towns,
But now what are you, Now that
Even the scabrous eyes of
Engulfing mothers don’t look up;
You suppose that wearing a
Ringing on your fluted finger and
Slinging some vows would resurrect
This town,
Would bloom this celibate mausoleum,
And draw the curtains, and green the
Room,
But even his soft kiss has gone overused,
As to be only as palatial as an
Ant mound,
With your eyes changing greedy colors
Just as uncaring
As that taciturn creed I’ve seen you
Grow yourself;
So that you should never look up,
And keeping going down cast
Counting the cracks in the starving
Esplanade of you mother’s
Waning marble spine.