Machines Of Primary Colors Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When another day passes like
Helicopters in tandem
In the breeze—
Going the way old loves shouldn't
Have gone,
Over swing sets enjoyed with my
Mother—enjoyed with
My muse—
Machines of primary colors
Next to the heartbeat of the beating
Waters—
All of the motion that the beating throws—
And she is gone
And my mother is nowhere around:
I wasn't supposed to make
Love to her,
My lasting muse—I wasn't supposed to
Do any of this,
Just as airplanes made for the angels
Are never supposed to touch the ground.