Philosophy Of The Motionless Tribute Band Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Too old to care now what lays just over those hills.
I used to go out all the time and dream of you,
And walk up her curls like a fairy-tale-
I wanted to take you there, even while you were all pearly
In your bars.
Sometimes, the rain fronts must have reached us twice,
And the same cars, sunny-day tourists on their way to visit
Grandmother at Disney World;
But eventually I have to move on. Even dogs die after
A few years, and I love them;
Its time to take down the lights of my tribute band,
And stop dying my hair: Even Arthur Rimbaud lost his
Leg when he couldn’t find anything else to sell.
And the bouquets I sent a decade ago must have wilted by now.
We were born into similar cornfields, but you didn’t care:
All you had to say is that our seasons didn’t swing together,
And you pouted for other boys in all those photographs:
You don’t have to remind me that I’m not there. And yet,
Stephen King recommends writing four to six hours a day;
And the miracle is I’m doing that- Sometimes still using you like
A crutch, I never go outside and practice on windmills,
But I’m still here taking my little turns, making a usual little sister
Out of your frightened soul: And the playground is open under
The moon in full swing, so I have no reason to move.