The Strange Summits Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What you can be: a tourniquet for the dogs underneath
My flag—
Filthy banner of a flea market and a stop watch—
As, all of the housewives swing home on
Their censers,
Smoking with perfume and legs that flood the cul-de-sac:
And I’ve wondered,
Can you see into her eyes, looking down from you
Apartment—
Your heart something taken out at midnight from
The refrigerator as your old girlfriend cried herself to
Sleep on your floor—
And your thoughts, lost in Los Angeles or Colorado,
Like little arrow heads pepper the strange summits—
And you go to sleep, knowing there will be school tomorrow
If knowing nothing more.