Because All Of The Princes Have Gone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Beautiful as the nuisance of traffics along the
Highways,
The scars of eagles drying like wet paint upon my
Face-
And I remember that I was not here,
And that it was the legless words that ushered
Me upon their belly
To see something like my dead grandmother in
Those weeds:
Hung out in the cathedrals of reptilian young,
The rains doing nothing to the fattened bellies of
Their mothers,
As they cool alongside the hapless re bars of
Car ports,
As the virgins sit atop of washing machines,
Listing in their gyre,
Waiting for the amphibian throats to flood and
Sing that this is no good- no good,
Because all of the princes have gone.