Crying With Whatever Cenotaphs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All day long in a cloud of dynamite
Rattle teeth as
Golden as the armpits of the moon, until finally
Released
And settled down and sucreased in the shallows-
There off in the penumbras
Of the satellites of
Anywhere, I wonder what it must feel like
To come down off the cooling steps
Of the bus and to fiddle on home
Like a crustacean touching its open wounds:
Like a firework who has figured out how to handle itself:
Over the bridgeworks of bleeding gums where
The otters still swim anyways,
And the hobos toss their overused bottles underhand
Like flutes with too much spit,
Cursing and writing to the awful green grass in short
Hand,
Mystified again by what the day has done to them:
Until the housewives scuttle across their heady bones
All in a home ward circus of Cadillacs and roses,
Esteemed that the day is just going to be all right,
And then their in their weeping bodies
Crying with whatever cenotaphs who can bleed all throughout
The night.