As If You Were A Pilot Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pitiful, yellow, and untrustworthy- but buried in the
Ground, you bloom like the best parts of your
Youth,
And the tiniest uncertainties of the earth flock over
To investigate you-
Brown eyed poet in the earth, buried as if in your little
Mine- Knowing words a hundred years before
My own heartbeat,
So many words like currents that the river can take-
Beaming in the shadows:
Are you holding your breath, waiting to be resurrected
In new colors?
Can you tell me anything about my wife, as the traffic
Excretes over your chartreuse shoulder blades-
There isn’t anything that hasn’t been done to you-
Your teeth are a pick for an angel’s harp,
And that is your hotel that the prostitutes and stewardesses
Cry over, bosomy, lactating alcoholically,
Anointing you as if you were a pilot, as you have
Touched them.