The Middle Of The Night Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And if I were dancing drunkenly
South of Spain,
Would you catch me in the New Years of that
Country and across
The railroad tracks
While it all has to happen to us—
In the venal enterprises of the mail men and our
Mothers,
Whilst there is nothing left that is beautiful
That we have left to say—
And yet the sun comes up over the mountains—
Luminescent daydream of a movie theatre—
And those who are the oldest of this country
Cannot stop with their busied menstruations—
As the movie theatres play their daydreams on and
On with out them,
Spilling their gossips out onto the catatonic streets:
The open throated estuaries that wait all
Night for their own throats to be
Filled with baseball and the pollinations of witches—
Until the wind has caught and she has finally flown
Above them—
Casting her spells, she is now a stewardess, something
Respectable if only slightly above minimum wake:
But she has nothing to fear—
Eventually the mountains will weep,
Sending their lactates and melted ice-creams down
Atop of her—
Answering all of the unanswerable questions—until it
Is very, very late in the middle of the night—
And I am guessing that it is finally alright to go to sleep.