Round Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The roads move and move and
Move,
People drive down their roads,
Sit and wait as the movement slows
As traffic backs up,
They watch out their strange windows
The sun and the millioned-knifed sea
Stabbing upward;
Like them, kicking frantically,
Sluicing over,
Spilling themselves
Into ennui
Never escaping the dull light
Spearing them,
Cleaning and gutting them,
Beautifully framed and owned
By the clothing of their words,
As they move around and around
Trapped by the limitations
The revolutions of the earth’s
Carnival ride
Never thinking to escape by
Rolling down the windows to leap
While the car is still moving

To the beyond….

Each night they return to
Their road rolling on,
Ebbing like the tide,
Traceable and scientific
The explanation of themselves
As given to them
Evident in their surroundings.