Airplanes suck the fists of my body:
They make strange stances in the air: their bodies like silver
Virgins daring the werewolves who are leaping
Like the proverbial foxes for all of them.
And now they all have their chalices, and I saw the mailman yesterday
While she was walking:
The mailman was a woman, a woman who had not a single
Barrett in her hair.
And so she wasn’t much good for a woman- a woman,
But I still stopped and stared,
And I remembered high school or where, where
I was better off somewhere.
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Comments about this poem (Somewhere by Robert Rorabeck )
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