With Nothing Left To Prove Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Yes, the country dies fighting dragons:
It dies gallantly not knowing that it is Beowulf fighting its
Last monster:
The country dies into trucks and cars,
Blaring with all of its country stars:
Right into the middle of Bellefontaine Cemetery it gives its
Last ballyhoo;
And the monoliths of its last breath rise up like skyscrapers of
Honey bells:
The country dies as it touches itself; and you don’t write
Because you don’t have anything to prove;
And I swam on the swings with Kelly today, swam in the black
Man’s playground on new Pompeii,
Neglecting to collect the new coloring books of animals for
My papier-mâché arc- My father’s name is Mark,
And I am the captivated sailor who farms from his main staff
A rich topiary of honey-spectacular seahorses;
And in the grottos of grizzly bears I transform with the
Conquistadors into carnivals of cannibalistic carnivores;
And the old poets burn like leading waves,
Like girls heavily perfumed on strawberry floats in Saint
Augustine:
You are the richness of my soul, and I watched you being planted
Today;
You fell down burping blood and little plastic dolls right
Next to Sara Teasdale who’d just come up shopping from her
Immortal malls;
And we held her hand like a conduit; and I listened to you
Breathing like a lonely washing machine in a carport the rains were
Spitting over like a typhoon; and the country gave its final throws;
The pitchers closed on the mound
And the golems rose; and I fell asleep with you underneath the
Bleachers in a country of losers:
From that high school you got thrown out from as a freshman,
That I graduated from but still live in,
Like the lucky old son of a felon, behind the illusions of your
Tragically sellable eyes,
The country dies, love struck and battle weary,
Like an old veteran in the blistering trams of an epileptic playground
With nothing left to prove.