Featureless Resting Place Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Happens here, and laughing- spilling out the perfumes
From the places that will not heal:
Just here alongside a highway, where ever we are:
Not exactly getting any of it out: not really believing in anything:
Stumbling upon some luggage in the dusk of the roadside
The tourists tossed out;
And our knees are scabbed, and our body weeps,
And how much longer I do not know:
I do not even have a map of the country that we are in, but something
Is singing in the grass- intent and venomed by purpose;
It is there singing of us, and to sleep to a place we must go;
While the conquistadors keep busy in the dunes foraging for
Pornography,
And the traffic rushes like Mexican brooms, able to displace us
Even though we are not moving, but weeping for a kiss without
Legs, slithering through the easement anonymous:
A lover’s nameless bed, a featureless resting place.