The Arid Trailer Parks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Standard recesses of henchmen at play,
Finally lose their footing underneath the canopies of
Horse trailers returning to the blooming splinters
Of their home towns:
Declaiming like criers for a neighborhood’s orchestra:
Now hearing this, as the black men
Don’t like fire trucks, and their sacks of coal offspring
Stick to the swings,
Ladling the moon into caesuras- making up their
Own benchmarks and candy canes:
Until hung early one evening on the spokes of a palmetto:
Marionettes of chimney sweeps- latchkeys of
Oil spills and bad penmanship- not even the calligraphy
For apocryphal cartography;
And yet the witches came and changed them into horny
Toads and hela monsters and reset them
Into the arid trailer parks where the dusty throats of
Thirsting devils could harangue them once more.