The Helpless Yesterdays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There is a tree: underneath a house,
Underneath a cloud—
There is a woman, underneath a house,
Underneath a horse—
And it doesn't feel alright to be
Alive—
While the pools glow in the blues of
The moonlight—
And in the safe times of the cul-de-sacs
Seem to rejoice that they have
New joy—
And seeming to keep that fact to
Themselves—
Escape to be anywhere:
Escape to be anywhere—
And the sunlight is a suburban altar—
And the moonlight is an abandoned car wash:
And I haven't lived so long as to
Not remember, how the marionettes cut
Themselves from the umbilical cords
Of the state funded racehorses
And their high schools—
And danced forever through the shadows,
Burying their gold absentmindedly beside
The shores—
And crossed themselves—
And seemed to believe in forever—but they were
Just superstitious—as all of the night time sat
And waited, riding
The caesuras of waves—waiting for the genies
To unbottle themselves
And give the perfumes of their descanter—
To the aphrodisiacs that could not help but to wander
Into the helpless yesterdays.