In Between The Mailboxes - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
Shoulder to shoulder,
We, crying, compete for the spear:
It hurts, down at sea level,
Gasping underneath of the airplanes,
But what do they have to say
To any of us?
That the day burns as it echoes and
Gasoline leaves pretty scars and
The way they play beside us is uneven—
The gifts they give after paying their
Monies are unoriginal—
The daylight has already taken off—
The fairies are disrobing into the pornographies
In between the mailboxes
And I think of you far away from here.
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