The Despondency Of The Highest Of Skies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Games are pleasures for white men in Africa,
Walking the footpaths,
Touching themselves in the mumbo jumbo of an
Easily spotted arcade;
As we drink our spirits and bless ourselves to
The cenotaphs of girls surviving in Colorado,
As the hours change from three to five;
As the gunfighters eventually unclothe to make love
To the precious whores
Who so knowingly close their eyes,
As the lightning whips like windswept paramours
Through the despondency of the highest of skies.