The Mobiles Of Crystalline Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Whatever, I leave the muses grazing in
Their own estuaries—Even my heart seems to
Ignore them until I drink
Rum and then I hear the music playing from
Another house—
And then I call them, painful dances up through
My scarred body,
To display them before the unpublishable
Elements—
Girls who never truly loved me or didn't even
Know my name—whatever,
They are here, gathered in the nightmares of
These piss stained pages—
Apart of the irony that they will live longer
And be truer in my unavailable broadsides—
They will be more beautiful folded up,
Forgotten by their husbands—
And they do not even think of me—
And it rains outside until the tears
Are pushed away by the cold front
Decorated by the mobiles of crystalline airplanes.