Margot Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nights fanned around the higher enclaves of
Pitch fork pines: you can see them rising, transplanted out of
Merry Old England into South Florida
With all of its bustling news: old gods and new gods spanning
The archipelagos petered off from where I live:
The trailer parks humming with corrugated symphony,
And every once in a while lighting up
And cursing the telltale dreams of airplanes skipping over their
Impoverished alphabets- stewardesses in negligee and wigwams:
Their captains chiseling in infinite transoms,
Throttling up the boudoirs of hard working angels;
And there it receives, landing across the bridges as cars wreck
Down beneath them, flipping over into the cenotaphs and
Castanets of dead Indians:
Turning like terrapin bellied up, sniffed and lunched on by dogs:
Landscaped by the silly ribaldry of these pines curling with
The scoliosis of the last two hundred years
And choking the mouths of canons- shading crosses and lactating
Over the cannibalisms of blue jays: I already have three in my
Front yard growing like salivating mongooses over
Bird eggs: seeming to give the next tropical storm their braided
Birds- sticking it to Margot or what’s her name.