The Usual Flight Paths Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I needed to see you yesterday- just as the airplanes need their
Stewardesses to survive,
Without the sunlight looking up through the housewives windows,
Who else will be left to believe:
That the singular fox is sucking the tits of the grapes again,
Like a truant tucked into the student parking lot during
Midterms,
His latchkey fingerprints being burned with rum and supplanted
Time,
Like a tent in the middle of war on the borders between us and
Mexico-
And all of the gold lost in the first softly frightened throats of
The cannibalistic jungle:
And the tourists going down there, so far away from what made
Them to believe,
Just to get a glimpse at the first luck of the beauty that lies within
Yourself,
Like the often seen jewelry bobbling in an over eager wishing well:
And this is you, Alma: and this is how my words find you,
Like the lighter than air cadavers whistling from my throat:
The hollowed bones of flutes that stem from my fluttering wrists
Who picnic underneath the meadows of the usual flight paths,
And stymie you overeagerly there and kiss you there.