There were plenty of flowers at the funeral; <br />If I knew their names, <br />It would make a pretty list; <br />But I only knew her, <br />The dead girl- hit by the flapping door <br />Of a semi truck in North Carolina: <br />Walking with a boy I never saw, <br />Looking at the man who turns into an owl, <br />For the last time: <br />The scents of the open world <br />Budding on the dangerous highway. <br />In that room where her family mourned, <br />They paid by the hour, <br />And I shook each of their hands; <br />The drummer wore a pink Mohawk, <br />And did a good job beating the dirge- <br />Her face was sewn up like a doll <br />Whose insides are made of corn: <br />Something that you or I cannot keep, <br />But little girls can play with in their time <br />Only to put away when they grow out of dresses: <br />And then she was no more, <br />For the viewing lapsed into the grave: <br />Once she straddled my leg which pretended <br />To be a horse taking her to a pomegranate tree; <br />She made love to two men, as far as I know, <br />And was a better poet in the spring: <br />I have not read about where she lies now <br />Furrowed into the earth, <br />Though a decade ago, I cheated off her <br />Sociology test- Somehow I passed, <br />And she failed and fell into <br />The silhouette of her name stone.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-silhouette-of-her-name-stone/
