Underneath The Abandoned Highways Poem by Robert Rorabeck

With all of the shadows bending,
And my dog looking again at me from the floor—
And all of the shadows healthy as
A newly cut Christmas tree,
I think of writing my last and final muse again—
As the last of the sunlight slithers upon the
Floor,
But there is no amusement underneath the
Abandoned highways of the resting airplanes—
Sometimes she takes off by herself
Even though I tell her that she cannot fly—
And she looms in the headlights,
And she makes love to herself over the waves—
And I have tried time and time to save her,
Even though she pretends that there is nothing left
Which can be saved.