The Trailer Park Of Our Conjoined Tombs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burning in the shadows of Ferris Wheels,
Or their overpasses,
We can’t yet say what might still arise from
The sea,
While your hair is blowing,
And your throat is air-conditioned:
And my pulp fiction is just that I want to love you,
I want to go down dying swinging my
Samurai’s sword against the
Bullets, the mirages of school busses
Pirouetting thousands of miles
From where they actually turn around:
Or if we make it to oasis,
To drink until our bibs are wet with honey,
Fat bellied and holding hands
To hold the same illusions,
To run away to Michigan, or wherever you were
Born,
Sharon. Where were you born,
And what is your favorite color,
And what do you dream now with the clouds coming
Over
When I am not a beautiful man. I am just drunk,
But I want to ride the same school bus with you,
I want to turn around in the panoply of many a
Catholic institution,
And to fall against my back holding hands with you
In the brightest emptiness
While the airplanes leap to and from their careless
Holidays,
And only then should the winged men recite down
To us all the illusions which bloom like the open
Mouths of lions yawning, yawning,
Waiting for lunch while we seem to sleep together
In the trailer park of our conjoined tombs.