Drifters Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Drifters



Long ago two people made
Love, with their eyes long steady,
Flesh and bones pressed, in mid April,
Two days after my birthday— at 8,000
Feet above sea level it snows in the
White Mountains where I finished my
Work early to have time enough to
Think about dead relations facing eastwards and the
Marble tombstones that ornament their
Skulls on far away hills like crowns or trophies with
Birds fluttering hollow-boned and darting shadows along
The cemetery’s black iron gates, as I open
A popular book beneath a cloud smothered sun.
I look up and dad has brought home a
Drifter named Joe to help with the
Horses—19 pregnant mares whinny amidst
The pines before the hillside slopes steadily
Down to Highway 180— Joe was walking
The 60 miles between here and Showlow,
Singing songs to his newborn son, his eyes
Following the line of highway to a home unseen—
Now,27, Joe sleeps in the room near mine,
And when Grandmother comes this Sunday,
She will greet us both the same, and pretend
To worry that I didn’t go to Japan to teach,
And say now, it is too late. I will smile because
I can not explain to her, like an Indian who
Passes through the boundaries of another man’s
World, those things, beautiful extinct
Animals, which can only be sought in the
Frosted steps miles above the world’s highest
Mountain.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Emancipation Planz 15 February 2008

This allowed me to drift and soar to the pinnacle... frozen with eyes wide open.. Thank you

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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