The Meat Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Meat



Fibrillose like a centipede and counting backwards
From the laundry or the arcade,
Following the bred crumbs and the beer cans until your
Hair was yellow again.
And you were just a freshman emptied into his class
In a school that was just finding its legs,
While cicadas skipped themselves discardingly amidst
The over red blooms of the bromeliad
Outside by the archipelagos of landscaping where the
Bicycles hid
And the grass was mowed just as orderly as housewives
And they had firedrills that took you outside so you could
Be all by yourself until the pretty girl who played
Soccer who you would never make love with
Came over to occupy a space near you, both of you bared
To the sun- underneath an important sapling
Until you skipped school to go to Spain and Michigan,
And the fair came around selling you the caesuras of unnatural
Haunts that seem to give you angels, only to Indian give you
Back to yourself, until you became and echo
That resounded with the spent fireworks of an obsolete religion
Rising and dying repeatedly like an orchestra of red devils
Playing baseball and the meat of your own hand.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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