The Same Old Engines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Look at all of the people behind us melting into
The chords of snow,
Alma: they are breathing a ghastly that I thought you
Should know,
That it has been awhile since my travels have been so long
Since they have been at such an impasse;
But you don’t care:
You are a Mexican with auburn corn-husked hair;
And you hang up the telephone on me just whenever you can,
And go to sleep with your more appropriate of men;
As I call to you in the dreams that you cannot answer,
As the seas flood over with my unrequited rivers given down
From the diademed crowns
Of the weightless mountains, culling upwards like ghastly children:
They seem like strings of tits on a centipede,
And they have poked out your eye while you were riding
Your bicycle,
And now they go down to the lake by the graveyard to smoke for
Awhile,
While you can’t say that you love me like a tender child;
Or you cannot say that you love me while the kines run wild,
Smoking over the boulders and chugging along,
While the same old engines sing the same old songs.