Edict Of Parking Lots Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Edict of parking lots
Upon the borders of which a few
Blue yet sincere
Ghosts remain caught in
The brambles—
This is the same spot where
Edgar Allen Poe turned up—
Death from alcoholic voting fraud—
Where no children are left behind—
The metamorphosis of men into
Soldiers,
And women into stewardesses and
Thus into airplanes:
It is beautiful to behold, if you can—
The changes
They do not wish for you to perceive—
The only things that you can teach
Yourself—
Madness—
Wildernesses choking on arrowheads,
Paths into forgotten or ignored
Beauty—
An adventure into the stagnation of
Boyhood
how Peter Pan and myself
Learned how to survive—
And we are still here,
At the place we found across the street,
Following the first star until morning—
Naked, feral
And enjoying the company of dead
Poets in a place so near
To you you forgot to overlook
As they taught you the good things of
The earth and,
lining your pockets with gold,
sent you on your way.