Over My Beefy Grave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It doesn’t have to be real to go this way,
Singing its pledges to the empty sea,
While I will wake up tomorrow in the new birth of
My bachelorhood into which Alma has promised
To come and ride the bicycle I bought for
Her, that I myself rode today: across the city to the
Taqueria, and then to the swings,
And all the bodies like marionettes of their brown family’s
Swings:
And the world I knew has changed: America has
Absolutely changed; but she was never my world anyways,
So all I have to do is drink my liquor and wait for
Alma,
As she will come slipping her tan beauty like leggy sunlight
Over my beefy grave.