The Shoulder Blades Of An Afterlife In High Demand Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The truth finally comes out like long awaited
Orgasms heard breathlessly over
Phone lines,
And the pitiless flume like white roe dances
To death on the Indian rug
In one pitiful spot which makes her laugh for
Awhile like a
Bouquet she wasn’t expecting,
Nervously;
But the stage is pure, otherwise, and she looks
Fine in her serviceable outfits:
The entire definition of her creation is to look fine
And comely for your creation,
And that is why you get together,
And her hair is so long like a river straight through
The woods which has made you
Wonder,
And turned all the deer as white as ghosts:
In fact, she puts you into a somnolence where silver
Airplanes float as slow and unsure
As bees,
Taking passengers back and forth to pollens that have
Yet been extinct for
Uncountable years,
Making scientists yawn forever, as her immortality strikes
Nude and past her ears,
Down into the shoulder blades of an afterlife in high demand.