This F%cki9ng Interstate Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days stretch out like nude versions of your
Silhouette on paper that is burning
Before the golden eyes of an unidentified saint:
The conquistadors move up the sheer romances of
Their jungle;
Sharon stops to bib the milky drizzle from her luscious
Plate upon which Sabine’s eyes fixate
And dilate:
Erin is in her drunken rooms, serving the men and the
Beasts,
And the airplanes are always trying to make love to the first
Of the sunshine rising in the east;
And you can be sure that it is coming up,
Just as likely as something else that is dying:
The copper cannons sit in the relegated majesty of their
False repair,
Just upstairs from where Sharon’s sister is crying:
Erin’s sister is in Disney World where her little tourists are
Dying:
Where all her pictures are all gone like smoke signals over
The make believe ocean;
I look at my bullies through chicken wire:
My neck has been bitten by a vampire, and the traffic is still
Unmoving:
The cars pullulate with gold fish, the sugar canes fibrillate:
And I have two no good muses, busted and fat with roe of their
Slippery pregnancy, fighting like wispy salmon to make
It once more back up past the dazzling food courts that
Diadem this f%cking interstate.