Nobody Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Nobody’s fall from the sky these days.
Nobody’s are ever home.
I like to stand at the edge of the green with
The white tent and Christmas trees
In the opposite of crepuscule;
Then the traffic is somehow tamed,
The lights seem to have a cause. All the necessary
Mailmen are sleeping,
And my muses are unhinged of bras.
Sleeping with their men, or sleeping alone.
Maybe they turn to the side and scratch an itch they
Can hardly feel:
That is where they’ve stolen my rib,
That old exotic deal,
But by morning they are busy with scrambling eggs.
They walk out into the Garden of Eden like they
Do everyday and put their hands on clay:
They are making better men that they can feel,
Breathing unreal life into them,
Their children entrained like ugly goslings to them
Swans,
While the sky snows nobody’s from its ceil.