Where To Find Her Next Meal Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Some casualties are stolen by the wind:
That is when the busses pick up, and the baseball players
Start swigging their gin,
That is when the loam in her throat starts burning the notes,
Like a weathervane across the old valley’s moat:
This is where I’ve swung for you, and stretched my fattened
Body towards your holidays;
And this is where you’ve sighed for me, as the wind brushed
The mowed sod blanketing a comely grave:
And where I failed in the repeated motions, the way a headless
Chicken starves out in the tundra before the eyes
Of a heavily sated mountain lion, blue and lucky anyways,
Purring as she knows where to find her next meal.