Wishing That You Were Mine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh wont you find me a cenotaph
Stuck like an old piece in your yard,
High enough to be perceived by the ever building
Snows;
And won’t you hold on for a minute and
Watch out for me,
And think in the entirely opposite directions the
Tourisms of your state are leading you,
Because I have fallen down from the mountains
Where nary a girl thought to look at
Me:
I have shot down like a killed star: really just like
A piece of asteroid,
Like a junked video game from an old arcade
That you can still hear laughing and ululating down
Your street with the tumbleweeds;
And hold on for a minute, and press you child
Nearer your breast like a fat vine,
And remember the first word she happens to sing
To you,
Knowing that I have fallen so far, tumbling downhill
From hell,
Wishing that you were mine.