Whatever It Is Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Weak children brushing down on airplanes,
Never wondering where it is that they should land,
Never understanding the concepts brushed from the
Lips of the mountains’ graces;
Only their mothers’ breasts and now this, clouds in
The fog of make-believe, and the stars the spitfires
Of far away giants:
Words that seem to move, but don’t move at all,
Stumbling forever drunk out into the beautifully studded
Esplanades of the graveyards; and there truncated,
To mew up to the sensory mausoleums of the billboards
Who are even less than ceiling fans,
While the airplanes fumble their innocent holidays into the
Earth,
They just sit there mutely chattering about whatever it
Is that they must sell.