The Backyard Of Vanished Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Backyard Of Vanished Airplanes



Woebegone cotton gods lost in the midways of
Their stuffed-animal beliefs—
Selling things at the flea market on weekends
As the sun flips,
A tilt-a-whirl of mad things dancing in outer space—
Each instant a prism dancing for a moment
In the labyrinth of a kaleidoscope:
Each Siamese epicenter
Like a little, penny-ante church where I capture you—
Jewel of a dragonfly sold as a trinket—
Thinking of you and worshipping of you
As I drink liquor and then try to go
To sleep—
World in the backyard of vanished airplanes—
And you a lost daydream I once had.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Brian Jani 16 May 2014

I'm enjoying yo poems and this one is no exception

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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