Driving Away Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Soon the world will be getting up and
Breaking through its banshee membranes;
And even though I haven’t seen her eyes
Since high school,
Since I entrenched my senses like a sated
Terrapin underneath the school bus,
And saw her things,
She is not mine: like a telegraphic scream
On unsubstantiated news,
She dresses to sell to her jockeying guys
So slightly involved in her diamond minds;
And I put my hands on dirty fruit to feel her
Effervescing pulse,
But everything I sell so too will eventually be
Someone else’s,
Like our language, our thoughts of cars
Parked on the gilded throats of brilliant esplanades,
We can only lick our throats over the weathers sure to
Come;
Though they will always involve her in some beautifully
Uncontrollable way,
We will never steer them, the apoplexy of our tongued
Storms;
Just so, she isn’t she always around, opening the doors
And driving away.