The Bosoms Of The Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It doesn't help to hear the motors of other men
With anatomies more or less like mine,
With wives they want or already have—
Sojourning from trailer parks to apple orchards—
As I already have—
The whistling of a handsome tune across the
Ferris Wheels and Everglades—
Their daughters at peace or holding their hands
Next to the sea or underneath some roof of
A church together, while the heavens at first
Coagulate and then winnow—
Like driftwood in the higher echelons of the sea—
Sharing in a beauty the cannot remark upon,
And sharing in the cemetery grounds with even still
Other men who they once defeated or were
Inevitably defeated by—as above them, mysterious
Elk crest the hill above the swing sets in their
Parks—and even higher, almost hidden in the
Switchback bosoms of the mountains, a fire burns
That cannot be explained.