Passengers Of A Thousand Skeletons Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scribbling in the places of naptime—drooling, stealing—
Waiting for my Mexican uncle to come home
And cook me devil shrimp—
Smoking out of tinfoil next to the canal—
Where a tree without any roots spreads across the fields—
Where there are angels there,
And entire castles woven out of the cypress—
And a thousand other areas stolen by the ways the branches
Bow—hiding the trellises of conquistadors—they with
Their zink crosses painted blue—
Stuck in the reservoirs where a thousand automobiles should
Rust—tinkering with the folklore of alligators,
And the silent plains—passengers of a thousand skeletons—
And the clocks only the daylight of the sky—
Wandering off a ways—looking for a sanctuary faster than itself.