With Weekends Of Forever Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A life of loneliness lines the road—as people
Are going as they're told,
As their shadows are going all days of the week—
As the waters follow the contours of the creek—
And the day laborers go to the orchards
To sweat—
And the housewives bet on who to bet—
And every syllable is like a creature imagined from
Childhood—
As though the devils were angels,
And they are up to no good—
And the pilots have developed no fear
For the sky—
Who skip their stewardesses like stones
That must never lie—
And in the morning there must be another
Truth to be told—
As the young grow up to do what they're told—
And your shadows will follow us to
The holidays lost—
With weekends of forever whatever the cost.