Those Careless Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Problems with the nuisances of the favors
Of the swellest wives:
I remember them standing there like salt licking
Deer
In their kitchens at cooking time,
As their pools were wimpled by the cheery
Breath of airplanes;
And all of it was so unreal, and in still life:
So now I can’t even recall the feeling of myself there:
And I have to stand out alone against the stars
Who have meandered out of constellations,
Making no sense for anybody:
The children are lost but happy and on their backs
Breathing slowly as if they had found every last Easter
Egg and are now holding their
Coral snakes like cherished pets;
And I watch the n%ggers pointing out the rainstorms,
As the airplanes seem to roar like lions
Taking off their clothes in the sky,
As I see the last light of love from her eyes
Botoxed in my mother’s brow,
And the little boy becomes a felon of iron pyrite,
Breaking his legs before the faith of his dogs up in the
Nameless caesuras of those careless mountains.