Well Of Holes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A sea of trees brimming at the edge:
A well of holes of words pretending to fill a soul—
And Jack-O-Lanterns on a porch,
And pornography across the canal—and many, many
More things that I can neither tell nor
Spell,
But I see someone else's paper airplane up in your
Tree, as the cicadas are digging their week long lives
Up into the graveyards of a harmless suburbia—
As little boys steal fireworks underneath the housewives'
Untrained eye,
And doppelganger shadows move from the necks
Of their mailboxes—
Sometimes there is someone home,
And sometimes I have wet dreams of your sister
Who I never think about anymore.