Down Her Interstate Of Cadaverous Holiday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This wind, she is a banshee- she is relentless,
See her shake the cones from the conifers, make aspens
Opalescent naked with this still yet early autumn;
And today I walked the dragon’s ridge,
Trying to pretend that I was somnolent, in a state of
Fever dream, or half-real in love:
Like a re-animated cat, something absolved,
Something that might fuse with her and go out with her to
Lunch and have so much money as to bare children with
Her; and to never have a hunch:
What I am doing now, lighting the wicks for the less than
Virgin theatre- maybe the lost cause of the lost boys
Launch, to crenellate and in-flume the air,
Over the picnic baskets of stuffed watermelons;
And she is on the yard, the gently sloped abutment of
Old cavalries named after their gray generals- she is a southern
Bell- she is ringed and pierced and swelled;
And they are having lunch- sweet peas and fried chicken,
And their children, I can see ’em, half ornamented behind the
Red aquarium, getting drunker, diving down into the golf balls
Of the alligators’ hutch: I suppose I might save them;
But she doesn’t dream about me, the lazing conquistadors
Who, pompadoured, have taken off the parade:
Look at them sleeping rusting, weeping in their translucary
Hibernations: I don’t suppose they should ever care to
Wake up again- absolved to see her speeding fast and leggy
Down the freeways of her pristine arrangement;
Perfumed at the hinges of wrist and ankle: she is a fast beauty,
Metamorphosing, illiterate, what how she destroys us without
A thought, savage instrument, necrotic-fanged, busted,
Down her interstate of cadaverous holiday.