Before The Dust Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Best to be alone in this
Listening to the jackdaws of a skull-ravaged
Thesaurus,
Thinking of no particular aunts,
Dreaming of touching delicates on rain drenched
Clothes lines,
Having trouble once again looking at one side of
My face or the other,
Having trouble reciprocating with the sashays of
Tides
At the prom,
Building toy cabins like frontier castles underneath
The ceiling vans
Vacillating like smutty hallucinations over the
Come stains of
A vermilion carpet: gem-like beetles making another
Conquest through the house,
Six pillars standing out front like Mexican sisters
Who turned to look back.
Now there are Match-box cars in amidst the cenotaphs
Of pop-rockets,
And little girls who don’t drive around here anymore,
Because they have all forgotten who they are-
And the sky is as colorless as a torn down movie theatre,
With all the beautiful people moving
On before the dust can burry them along.