The Crepescule Of Football Games Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Transformed into
The petroglyphs
Before the songbirds who
Are out for no reason,
Dancing winged-
Songs stirred for the
Absence of housewives
With no more reason to
Love me;
The earth pushed a little,
Displaced from its godhoods
And toward catastrophe-
Dying a little the way the
Forest of angels
Drink sea salt- talk up
A little around
Graveyards- underneath power lines-
Why the sky is all blue
A little
F$cked up- punched in the face,
Like the crepuscule of football games
And I have nothing to
Remember how she feels
All asleep in his bed
While the ribald he rhyming burns-
And the roaming mouths of airplanes sing.