In Their Battalions Of Loneliness Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My pitiful voice hurries along in the loud
Whispers in the footsteps of a world that doesn’t
Change;
If you knew she was getting married, and you still
Went to the park to watch the funeral processions,
To sniff the crotches of angels;
And to know just so many words to believe in
The challenges of evil gods,
But to be impotent when mocking them:
To be a lost bird speaking colorfully through the trees,
Mouthing off to muses while they make love in other
States,
Or even other worlds and never really once even
Thinking of you, how you are already dying for them-
Why you might as well be crucified, lining the park
In golden chains,
Pretending to be a song bird, your paper songs
All strung out and disorganized, quickly forgotten
Under the more necessary cigarettes in their battalions of
Loneliness as it rains.