Juggernaut Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sleeping in an RV that isn’t
Mine,
The traffic dead, crepuscule dead
For now I still feel like
Some Viking king buried in his
Ship,
With a horde of sweet horse bones for
His accoutrements,
Cracking farts off the body like the
Perfumes the dead must give
To kindle each golden worm,
The bouquets of weepy Pharaohs
While the air-condition hums for
Burnaby,
And the greater whales sleep in their
Greater seas,
Crypts of stars and mothers too far away
To milk or weep.