What I Might Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Realizing that I am something else past its
Prime,
While you have been enjoying him for time in
Memorial;
I get all religious and go into a nose dive,
My pintails fluttering:
I become the midday catastrophe advertised over
Your eyes,
Abounding the slopes underneath the doomful
Mountain,
You look up with the other tourists and agape with
Wonder;
And it is something to look out for while it is
Happening,
While there is like a brilliant bullet hole through
The chest of skyway,
Creating an easily discernable mote where angels
Shout the reckonings of the depths to their
Stalwart captain;
And I am glad that I could be this for them,
Like a bottle rocket shot down past the blue gills in
The canal,
Like a truant falling from his afternoon tree,
Like a catch of twigs breaking against the river that
Is tickling your ribs
Making you think to look up and speculate on
What I might momentarily be.