The Cemetery That Holds Her Grave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now there is nevermore news of kidnappers:
They day is just glad:
It is slapping its palms against the concrete,
And little things I say are skinning their knees to get
A better look at him:
They go leaping across the chalk teeth of the
Graveyard where all of the better
Poetesses are buried—where Sara Teasdale lies
Posthumously pulverized:
Underneath the lilac shade beside where the black
Children scream like fire engines
And kill each other with popguns:
And there is a McDonalds north of her grave,
And there is a McDonalds south of her grave—
And the universities that lay around her keep remembering
Her with sideways glances:
But upon their greeneries no copper statues diadem
Their academic glades:
There is Twain and Frost and maybe even Whitman:
The black men hustle and pause—but I am sure not a single
One of them has read Sara Teasdale,
Though I once drove my car through the cemetery that holds
Her grave.