The Brickwork Of Seashells Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The crow flies over other stanzas- over windmills
And azaleas smelling as sweetly
As the armpits of my fathers fathers- as the fruits
Are eaten to the pits,
As the overly frantic traffic finally stumbles home to
Trailer parks,
And abuse; while the waves moan brownly like a
Washing machine gowning seaweed over itself;
As Alma finally gets off work and drives to a home
Where her two children wait for
Her like packages for Christmas: unfolded, she thinks nothing
Of me, or the magic tricks of rabbits
Who are all gone anyways, and their flashing love- swallowed
Up by the rattlesnakes or the conquistadors all the same,
And by their work she goes to sleep, filigreed in a patina of
Fighting resorts that swell around her like the brickwork of
Seashells,
Continuing her story until she should ever awaken one morning
And leave to never come home.