Zigheil, Jungfrau Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The heater is on and it smells like
Roasted peanuts,
But the theatre is quiet and all the
Young gentlemen gone:
The four-ring tent is still up, though,
And so I shall continue rehearsing my act.
In fact, Arthur Rimbaud is deep in his
Weepy one-legged grave;
And you can’t barely hear his farts,
He’s been so well plundered by lesser poets;
But there’s still time left for one
More poem after midnight,
If only because I’ve been reading Mark Twain’s
Concerning the Jews,
While this coach has returned to a pumpkin;
And though it isn’t likely that I should use
Any of it directly for my dissertation,
It is the truth that I once did love her,
She who is so easily related to Satan, and kept
Her in my bed while the clock was still
Concerning under the hour of the bicycle thieves;
And we had a mezuzah taped on the door,
And she cooked potato latkes-
When she farted it sounded like Dumbo trumpeting;
And I guess that’s why she finally left me,
Because I was gone exploring my Rocky Mountains,
Such a goy, my farts like goldfish in a tiny bowl
The cat plays with, so demure;
And this is what I’ve meant to say, that she’s gone
And married a local lawyer of her same proclivities:
She’s gone and shut the door and hyphened her last name,
And continued on with her tefillin and civilities:
Nothing more than expected-
Those used-car days,
And I’m sure that I could grit my teeth and explore the
Long list of anti-Semitic possibilities, but what for?
Instead, I should stand tall in my revelry because
I am more of a Jew than she ever will be;
She’s just lightly-frosted secular, leasing her Lexus
And BMW’s- Calling her man in to eat at Friday’s,
While I’m published,
Will soon be studying for a Ph.D.-
Of this I’m sure,
I once loved her- her entire race.
Now bow down to me, because though a
Goy, I’m much more the Jew than she
Ever will be,
Sure.