The Downy Curbs Of Ditches Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The power lines stretch and fawn, as the airplanes rapture,
And sometimes it will rain
As I imagine my mother coming out of that little house in
Her even littler, bluer slip:
There she is changing the laundry, as the ant lions molest in
The grass,
And the rabbits rest in the rock garden full of spikenard and
Cockleburs:
The neighbors are drinking beer, and the airplanes are launching
As if to Russia,
Everything bill folded into something that can fit across so
Many yards of the greenly understood,
While one or two misfits curl beside the cadavers of rattlesnakes
In the downy curbs of ditches that will never
Have to move again.