Sleepless Highway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When I die,
I shall haunt my grave waiting for you to come around,
Just so I can possess you from the suffocating dirt;
If I should see you walking through the plastic flora
In tin torches,

But for as long as you are alive,
You are yet mindful of honoring my pain, and forgetting such engagements,
You should never show;
The closest you get is the busy highway where your eyes do not
Reveal,
The destinations of your cropped photos,
And I am left with the breathless torment in which
I reside,
Pining in a box of morbid joy for a woman and time
Which never exists;

Just as the easy highway ebbs and flows from
The prior engagements of likewise-souls....
The living who roam the torrential tomorrow,
Sleeping in beds they have yet to earn.