The Voice Of Its Motions Towards Her Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Places of loudmouthed anonymity
Smoking cold shouldered underneath overpasses
Eating cold turkey on sanctimonious holidays
Rooted to no particular matrimony:
Eyes that first follow feet, follow nothing:
Thought to follow orchards, thought to watch beauty
Ripen:
Now under the traffic of torn and beaten flags
Piled up in an unglamorous concrete valley
In the fugue of lime disease and citrus cancer
The body no longer knows what juxtaposition the body
Once was hungry for;
It still cracks tiny motes like the spindles of a bicycle;
And it still may flag other bodies down just to get a little
Further by car,
But it no longer believes its muse was ever beautiful,
Or the voice of its motions towards her.