She worries her hair, which feels like a wire brush.
As for the cadaver? That she keeps going with occasional gigs,
and a presence (web) and “friends.” When Rick Wakeman
is playing East Stroudsberg, PA, the world has changed.
And if in reading this you’re lost, well, there you are,
                                                       the world changed,
the stars fled, the gifted hired as side or sound men,
knob jockeys. If you’re neither of these,
which is what Robinson is, you write a musical,
pursue that side project on the African Savannah:

Hunters there fashion an elephant trap in the shape of a “V,”
two screened walls, the base of the V several hundred yards wide,
converging. Elephants are smart, she writes, of an afternoon.
When do they sense something wrong in their day?
She puts down her book,
collegiate highlighter and pen at the ready,
unsure who, of this rainy scene,
her marginal note on the trap is for—
though, clever girl, she knows what it means.