Author James Tate In a weird, forlorn voice he cries: it is a mirage! Then tosses a wreath of scorpions to the children, mounts his white nag and creeps off into darkness, smoking an orange. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 5 (1 vote) Rate Log in or register to post comments