My Usual Catastrophe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the four wheeled folly of meandering
Bric-a-brac we keep our common destination to
Ourselves:
Housewives who are even now looking at me
Don’t see how much trouble I am in: How they might
Save me with their own casual intimacy
With their ravishing souls sunbathing in their
Soft eyes:
How you could save me if you had a sweet tooth for
A dysfunctional starfish who knew we were
All just animals,
And even that was happening too quickly to happen
Like sweet omelets frying in a pan of flash bang,
With the most callous beauty foaming to the top
Like the snideness of waves:
They suppose they are angels, but the gravity has them
So well pressed that they might as well hope to
Be winged ants:
And once everything really gets going its one fiery shift
Into the next crimson ruby:
You were born in July, and you are the most burnished of
All the animals petal smashed on the highway,
And I don’t want to spend another night without you,
But I will, won’t I: and this is my most usual catastrophe.